“You listen to the radio from West Berlin, do you not?”
“Yes,” I say in a voice that sounds choked.
“But that is illegal. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So why do you listen to a radio station that is banned in the German Democratic Republic?”
What am I supposed to say? Because East German radio stations are all controlled by the government? Because they broadcast nothing but government propaganda about how well the factories are doing and how the Wall is protecting us from the evil Fascists in the West?
“Well?” she says leaning forward and frowning.
I shrug. “We just enjoy hearing the news from West Berlin.”
“Why would you be interested in the news from West Berlin if you weren’t intending to illegally leave the GDR?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Fräulein Neumann, are you in contact with a West Berlin terrorist organisation, yes or no?” She has returned to her opening line.
I can see we are going to go round in circles like this for hours. My mouth is dry and I can feel the beginnings of a pounding headache. Outside the light is fading to dusk.
After another round of questioning in which I do my best to give all the same answers as the first time, Frau Biedermeier presses her fingertips together, looks at me as if she’s thinking hard about something and then appears to come to a decision. She presses one of the buttons on her telephone machine and waits.
Moments later the door opens and two guards appear.
“Take her away,” says Frau Biedermeier.
The guards each take hold of an arm and drag me to my feet.
“Where am I going?” I ask.
“That is not for you to know,” says Frau Biedermeier coldly.
Dieter
Rolf is locked in a storeroom in the bakery and Andreas is standing guard outside the door. Werner calls a crisis meeting with me and Claudia.
“How the hell did Rolf find us?” he asks.
I explain to them how Rolf tracked me down using the number of the hotel which was written in Sabine’s notebook.
“But how did he have her notebook?” asks Claudia.
“I don’t know,” I say, “but it looks as if the Stasi must be on to Sabine for some reason, I can’t think what.” I feel nauseous at the thought of the Stasi invading my family’s privacy. And what if they found the letters that Harry has been leaving for Sabine? I just hope she had the sense to destroy them.
“This is Scheisse!” mutters Werner. “We’re so close to finishing the tunnel and now the damn Stasi have infiltrated us.”
“Rolf swears he hasn’t passed on any information yet,” I say. I helped Andreas carry him to the storeroom and all the time Rolf insisted that he’d come straight here after speaking to Bernd. “He’s adamant that his bosses in the East don’t yet know the location of the tunnel.”
“We can’t trust him though,” says Werner. “If we let him out he’ll go straight back to East Berlin and tell them everything. He’s got to stay where he is for the time being.”
“And what do we do now?” I ask.
“We carry on digging,” says Claudia. “What else can we do?”
So Werner and I return to the tunnel face and Claudia does her best removing the buckets of rubble. But we’re dispirited and progress is slow. By the evening we’ve only dug another half a metre.
It’s only then that we realise Harry hasn’t returned from East Berlin.
Sabine
The guards march me out of the interrogation room. They are both armed with rifles. They take me outside. A van is parked nearby. I’m surprised to see it here at this time of the night because from the writing on the side I can see it’s a bread delivery van. We go towards the vehicle and I wonder what is happening when the guards suddenly lift me up and push me through an open door in the side of the van.
It’s dark in the van but there’s just enough light from outside for me to see that this is no bread delivery vehicle. It has a narrow corridor down the middle and five tiny cells, three on one side, two on the other, each with its own door. Two of the doors are bolted shut. The guards shove me inside one of the empty cells and force me down onto a narrow wooden bench. There isn’t room to stand up. They slam the door shut and bolt it on the outside. I’m in pitch blackness.
“Nein!” I scream, slamming my hands against the cell door.
“Be quiet!” shouts one of the guards.
I cower in my cell, too scared to move. Where the hell are they taking me? And who was in the other cells? I wonder if one of them is Harry.
Orders are shouted. Then the rear door of the van is slammed shut and the vehicle jerks into life as the engine is turned on. I grip the edge of the bench with my hands and shut my eyes. It’s pitch dark in here anyway. The van lurches forward and I’m thrown to the side, banging my head on the metal wall. I have no idea where they are taking me.
After about twenty minutes of jolting and being thrown from side to side every time the van turns a corner we come to a stop. There are more shouts and orders. Then there is a grinding, clanking noise, like the sound of metal gates opening and the van lurches forward once more. The van turns sharply to the left and I put my hands out to try and brace myself. We stop, then the vehicle reverses a short distance. The engine is turned off.
I sit still and listen.
The other cells in the van are opened one at a time and the people in them are taken away.
I hold my breath.
There are footsteps outside my door. The bolt is slid across. Then the door to my cell opens and two pairs of strong hands pull me roughly to my feet. The guards push me out of the van. I try to see where they have brought me, but the van is parked in a loading bay inside a building and I have absolutely no idea what is outside. Somewhere a dog barks.
They take me down a long linoleum-floored corridor. On either side of the corridor are grey-painted, heavy-looking doors at roughly two metre intervals. I am taken to one of these doors. One of the guards opens it and the other pushes me inside. They lock the door behind them.
I am a prisoner.
Dieter
It’s gone midnight and Harry still hasn’t returned. Something is definitely wrong, I can see it in the faces of Werner and Claudia.
For all that Harry likes to put on a show of bravado and nonchalance, he always comes to tell us he’s back safely and boast about his exploits. We’re his audience and he seeks our applause. He always laughs, afterwards, at the pedantic checks carried out at Checkpoint Charlie by the po-faced border guards. But what if he crossed once too often for their liking, arousing their suspicions? Did someone follow him to Stargarder Strasse? Did someone see him speaking to Sabine? The more I think about it, the more my thoughts run away with me until I’m imagining all sorts of scenarios. How do I know if Sabine’s all right? Anything could have happened to her.
“So what happens now?” I ask. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Werner and Claudia. Werner is compulsively tapping his pencil on the table whilst supposedly going over the plans. His face is drawn in a tight frown and there are dark rings under his eyes. None of us has had much sleep lately. Claudia is staring at a half drunk mug of coffee and chewing her nails.
“We have to assume the worst,” says Werner, pushing the plans to one side and throwing the pencil down.
“That he’s been arrested and is being questioned by the Stasi?”
Werner nods. “If they’ve arrested him it’s because they suspect him of trying to smuggle people out of East Berlin. It’s the only thing they care about – keeping their citizens under lock and key. Rolf’s appearance and Harry’s disappearance must be connected in some way, but if Rolf’s to be believed, the Stasi don’t yet know where the tunnel is. No doubt they’ll try and extract that information from Harry, but of course he’ll deny any knowledge of a tunnel.”
“But what will they do to him to try and extract the information,
as you put it?” asks Claudia. She is close to tears.
“That, I wouldn’t like to say,” says Werner. “They’re not known for their gentle methods.”
“Scheisse!” says Claudia turning away.
This is a nightmare. We’re so close to digging through to the other side, so close to achieving our goal, but now everything could founder at the last minute.
I turn to Werner. “What do you suggest we do?”
“I say we keep digging, but take extra care. If the Stasi discover the location of the tunnel they’ll swarm over Bernauer Strasse and Schönholzer Strasse like flies but we’ll see them from the roof first.”
Claudia turns back to face him, her eyes red and swollen. “Without Harry we don’t have anyone who can cross legally into East Berlin through the checkpoints.”
“No,” says Werner. “From now on, our only access to East Berlin is through the tunnel. Assuming we manage to dig to the other side without being discovered, then one of us will need to go through the tunnel and meet the escapees on the other side.”
Sabine
“Nein!” I scream, my voice echoing against the hard surfaces of the cell. I bang on the door with my fists, shouting, but no one comes. It’s no use. I will stay here until I’m called to an interrogation.
“Arschlöcher!”
If they can hear me, they ignore me.
I turn away from the door. They can watch me, through the peephole, whenever they like, and if they see me becoming violent they’ll stick me in a padded cell and leave me there to rot. So I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together.
Light is filtering through the glass brick window from the floodlights outside. There’s a narrow wooden bench with a blanket, a toilet and sink. Grey paint is peeling off the walls.
I don’t know where they have brought me, but it must be somewhere secure and hidden from ordinary people. I think of Matthias and Joachim, the boys who defaced the portraits in Herr Schmidt’s classroom, and wonder if they wound up here. Maybe they are still here, shut away from the world.
And what if they never let me out?
My pulse quickens and I find myself gulping for air.
I’ll miss the date for the escape to West Berlin.
I have a vision of myself, years from now, locked up and turned into a crazy old woman who can’t remember anything. I start to pace the cell.
It’s tiny.
I feel like a caged animal.
Stop! I stand still and try to calm myself down.
I focus on my breathing, consciously trying to slow it down. I think of Mother and Brigitta. For their sakes I have to try and stay sane. It’s very late and I should try and get some sleep.
I walk over to the bench and tentatively sit on the edge. When no one shouts at me to stand up, I try lying down. It is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever lain on. But I’m dog-tired and need to rest if I’m going to handle any kind of interrogation. I pull the coarse woollen blanket over me and close my eyes, longing for the oblivion of sleep.
*
I am being hauled out of a deep, dark pit.
I try to resist but rough hands have hold of me. They pull me into a sitting position, then to my feet. My eyes blink in the harsh, bright light that has been switched on in the cell. It’s still dark outside, not yet morning. I feel shivery and disorientated. The guards march me out of the cell and down corridors which all look the same to me.
They take me to an interrogation room and tell me to sit on a small wooden stool in the corner. The only other furniture in here is a large desk and comfortable chair where my interrogator will sit. I’m so tired I collapse onto the stool and lean forward with my arms on my knees. One of the guards shouts at me to sit up straight. Then the interrogator arrives.
This time it’s not Frau Biedermeier. It’s an old man, with thin grey hair combed back from his forehead and heavy black-rimmed glasses with lenses that magnify his eyes out of all proportion to the rest of his scrawny face. He smells of stale nicotine. One of the guards addresses him as Herr Schulz. He takes his place in the comfortable chair behind the desk and watches me through his thick lenses. When he opens his mouth to speak to me I see that his teeth are stained yellow and brown.
“Do you like the plays of Bertolt Brecht?” he asks in a voice abrasive from years of over smoking.
His question takes me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting a discussion of German culture. I have enough sense of mind to remember that Brecht is popular with the Communist Party so I mumble something positive.
“Then why did you not stay in the theatre to watch the second half of the opening night of Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder?”
Ah, so that’s what this is about. “I wasn’t feeling well that night,” I lie. “That’s why I had to go home early. I was sorry to miss the second act.”
“But you recovered from your illness to return to school on Monday and then take the train to Biesdorf-Süd where you met Marion Weber.”
Scheisse, I think, they know everything about me. “Marion’s an old friend,” I say. I hope he doesn’t start asking me questions about how long I’ve known her but, whether he believes me or not, he lets the matter drop.
“Talking of old friends,” says Herr Schulz, leaning across the desk towards me so that the saggy flesh on his neck is stretched taut, “one of your friends was shot trying to escape across the Wall, isn’t that correct?”
My eyes prick with tears at the mention of Hans and there’s a lump in my throat. I look down at my hands, refusing to meet his gaze. I want to scream at this horrible man that he has no right to speak of Hans but my voice feels strangled and when I try to say something no sound comes out.
Herr Schulz carries on, regardless. “Never mind Hans Fischer. He’s dead and is of no help to our enquiries. But we have reason to believe he was in contact with a group supplying false identities. We believe his mother escaped in this fashion. What do you know about this?”
I shake my head. A tear lands on my lap.
“Fräulein Neumann,” persists Herr Schulz, “what do you know about the provision of false identity papers?” His voice has risen in pitch.
I force myself to look at him. “Nothing.”
“Then what about a West Berlin terrorist organisation? Are you in contact with such a group?”
“No”
“Do you know Harry Hofmann?”
No.”
“Is there a tunnel being dug from West Berlin to the capital of the German Democratic Republic?”
“No.” I answer like an automaton.
“What was the nature of the illness that prevented you from staying to watch the second half of Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder?” We’re back where we started.
I know from experience that these people are indefatigable. That was round one of questioning. Goodness knows how many more rounds there will be. My back aches from sitting on the stool and every so often my head nods forwards. I have to force my eyes to stay open.
Eventually I’m taken back to the cell. I collapse onto the bed in a daze and fall into a disturbed sleep. I dream I’m being chased down a black tunnel. Behind me is a border guard with a gun and a barking dog. At the end of the tunnel Herr Schulz and Frau Biedermeier are waiting to catch me. Hans calls to me. Then I’m falling, tumbling through black space and I hit the ground with a thud.
I wake up.
The light in the cell has come on, piercing my retinas. No one has come into the room so the light must be on an automatic timer. I screw my eyes shut and try to ignore the harsh light from the bare bulb, but then a guard bangs on the door and shouts at me to wake up. It’s daytime.
I struggle into a sitting position. My head feels like it’s full of bombed out rubble. Outside the window is the faint light of early morning. Breakfast arrives through the hatch in the cell door. It’s a bread roll and a cup of water. I don’t want them. I have never been more miserable in my life.
Dieter
I don’t know if it�
�s because of Harry’s disappearance or the risk from Rolf and the Stasi, but there’s a renewed determination amongst the team when I join them in the cellar next morning.
“Be extra vigilant,” says Werner to Claudia who is preparing to go up onto the roof. “Report any unusual manoeuvres by the border guards immediately. If you see anyone sniffing around Schönholzer Strasse, tell us.”
“Will do,” says Claudia, running up the cellar steps.
“Right,” says Werner, turning to me, “I’ve sent Thomas out to buy a secure padlock so there’s no chance of Rolf escaping from the storeroom. In the meantime, Andreas is guarding him, so it’s just you and me in the tunnel this morning.”
“That’s fine,” I say. I’m just relieved Rolf is still under lock and key and I don’t feel at all guilty about it. It’s not as if he’s uncomfortable. He has a mattress and some blankets and enough food and water to keep him going for days. In fact, he’s probably getting better food as our prisoner than he did as a citizen in East Berlin so he should think himself lucky.
“Do you want to dig or clear the rubble and shore up the tunnel?” asks Werner.
“I’ll dig,” I say, picking up a shovel and lowering myself over the edge of the shaft.
I climb down the ladder, jumping the last metre or so and make my way along the tunnel. I’ve done this journey so often I’ve got used to walking bent double. I’ve developed a technique of walking with my knees bent so there is less strain on my back. As I go I check the wooden shoring is holding up and there are no damp patches which would give us cause for concern. The floor has worn smooth with the constant to-ing and fro-ing of boots. I no longer mind the musty smell. The ventilation unit that Werner rigged up is doing its job. Once the tunnel is open at both ends there’ll be better circulation of air which will make it safer for the escapees.
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