by David Young
It was the reminders she’d had so far that made her do what she did next. An almost involuntary action. As soon as she was in the apartment, she walked to the bedroom and opened the door. A musty smell of damp assailed her nostrils. Without a human presence for several weeks, the old building’s drawbacks had started to reassert themselves. Müller ignored the smell, and instead found herself – in an almost machine-like, robotic way – crossing towards the wardrobe. Pulling up the chair. Feeling on the top for the key, even though – with Gottfried long gone – there was no longer any need to hide it.
She took the key down, then used it to open the locked drawer, and pulled it out. They were still there, those two tiny sets of baby clothes. Ones that would have fitted the two children at the Rothstein clinic, had they been allowed to live. Ones that would have fitted her own twins, had she allowed them to live. This time, Müller just stared at the clothes for a moment, then shut the drawer again. Almost as though this time, she didn’t dare to touch them.
Slumping down on the end of the bed, she felt the exhaustion of the last few weeks weighing her down. She felt in her jacket pocket and pulled out the tin box that had been given to her by Rosamund Müller: the box that was the only link she had to her own bloodline. Müller opened the lid and took out the photograph. Had this girl – the nameless girl that she assumed was her birth mother – wanted rid of the baby she cradled in her arms? It didn’t look like it. Not from the love and longing in the girl’s eyes as she watched over the child.
The thought that the girl might have fought to keep her, while Müller herself had discarded her own offspring, suddenly led to bile rising in her throat. She put her hand over her mouth, eyes stinging with tears, and ran to the toilet.
*
Less than half an hour later, as Müller was sitting on the lounge sofa drinking a cup of coffee to try to calm herself down, the shrill jangle of the telephone cut through her thoughts.
She lifted the receiver and immediately recognised Eschler’s voice.
‘You and Tilsner need to come back to Ha-Neu immediately, Karin. We’ve found Maddelena.’
Müller’s brain immediately conjured up images of the baby girl’s face, superimposed on her twin brother’s battered, lifeless torso. She wondered how she would be able to break the news to the girl’s parents.
‘Where did you find the body?’ she asked.
‘No, no, you misunderstand,’ Eschler shouted down the crackly line. ‘She’s alive . . . and safe . . . and well.’
33
Six months earlier: March 1975
Komplex VIII, Halle-Neustadt
Being back in Halle-Neustadt is a little bittersweet, I must admit. I can’t stop thinking of Stefi. I suppose I knew it would be like this, that it would make me sad. I tried to convince Hansi that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea. That it might make me feel a bit funny again. But Hansi says that’s what the Ministry want him to do. He’ll be going back to his old job at the chemical factory, at Leuna. But as well as that, he’s involved in preparations for something important happening here – in Ha-Neu. He won’t say what it is.
Of course, we couldn’t get exactly the same flat back. Our old one’s been reallocated to another young family. Hansi did manage to secure a nice two-bed apartment on the edge of Ha-Neu, near the Ministry for when he needs to go in there. We’re on the top floor, facing almost due north, so we don’t get as much sun as I’d like. But I still enjoy standing at the window looking out at the view. To the left the Dölauer Heath, and a glimpse of Heidesee. It would have been nice to have taken Stefi there. Still, it wasn’t to be. And then in the other direction, the Saale and Peissnitz island. I saw the little train chugging along the river bank the other day. Stefi would have loved that. I used to take her there in the pram some days, you know, when she wouldn’t stop crying.
*
Hansi knows I’m sad. He knows what I really want. But things haven’t been very good in that department. I don’t know if it’s that he’s getting older, but he sometimes – what’s the phrase again? – oh yes, sometimes he doesn’t quite have enough lead in his pencil. I try to be gentle. Try not to put pressure on him. But it’s not just men who have needs; women do too, you know.
*
We’ve been trying again. For a little one. We have to be careful. The doctor told him last time that there’s something wrong with my blood circulation. If I do get pregnant again, then I may have to take some special pills to help with it. Otherwise the pressure of my enlarging womb can apparently squeeze the blood vessels, stop blood getting to my head, and I could faint. I asked Hansi if he thought I was too old now – after all, I’m past forty. If he thought it was all too dangerous. He seems to think everything will be all right, but it may take a long time, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much. But actually, thinking about it, my strawberry weeks have stopped again. I suppose it’s just my age.
*
Oh my word! You wouldn’t believe it. You absolutely wouldn’t. You know I said my strawberry weeks had stopped? I thought maybe it was my age, so I wasn’t holding out much hope when Hansi said we should try again for another child. I thought I might have reached the menopause early. Anyway, Hansi said we ought to go to see his doctor friend for a check-up. It’s the same one as last time, the one who looked after me with all the upset over Stefi. He’s very good, very gentle, and he and Hansi get on like a house on fire – which is nice, because sometimes I think Hansi doesn’t have that many friends. Not that I do, either. Anyway, the bombshell news from the doctor is that I’m already pregnant! It’s the same as last time. Doesn’t show that much because, well, as I told you before, I’m a big girl. I can’t quite work out the dates, though, because as I say, Hansi had been having a bit of trouble in that department in our last months in Berlin. He probably had a lot on his mind. But it did affect me. And now I’ve lost some weight, well, I still attract admirers. In fact, there was a new barman at the Weisser See beach bar this year. Very exotic and very handsome. Quite a charmer, I can tell you. I think he was a foreign student, over from one of the friendly Asian socialist countries, just helping at the bar at weekends to earn a bit of extra cash. I tried to resist his advances, of course. But he was very persistent. And – I’ll let you into a little secret here – an excellent kisser. There, I’ve said it. I feel a bit better getting it off my chest. Surely that can’t be it, though, can it? You can’t get pregnant from a bit of kissing and canoodling. We only did it the once, right at the end of September, and then I felt quite bad about it afterwards. It was terribly disloyal to Hansi. I’ll just have to be careful that he never finds out.
34
Six months later: September 1975
Halle-Neustadt
Instead of returning straightaway to the incident room, Müller and Tilsner parked the Wartburg at the back of the Salzmanns’ high-rise, the bath-towel-striped Ypsilon Hochhaus, and made their way to the lobby. Tilsner summoned the lift. They’d said little to each other on the car journey back from Berlin, and said little now as the lift glided up the ten floors to the Salzmanns’ storey. Müller knew that Tilsner would be aware of her unspoken fear: that this strange turn of events in the case was more likely to hinder than help the Kriminalpolizei investigation.
As Müller pushed the doorbell for Apartment 1024, the sound of its ring was almost drowned out by the noise of a baby crying. The cries got louder as Reinhard Salzmann opened the latch to let them in, the tension now lifted from his face – which was instead creased in a semi-permanent smile.
‘I was wondering when you would get here,’ said Maddelena’s father. ‘It’s your colleague, Hauptmann Eschler, who we’ve been dealing with. But I guess I should show you through.’
Müller and Tilsner followed Herr Salzmann towards the source of the baby’s cries, to the small apartment’s lounge.
Klara Salzmann was sitting on the green corduroy sofa, gazing downwards, beaming with pride. She glanced up at the two detectives, and Müll
er was immediately struck by the transformation from the desperate woman she had collected from the kindergarten at Komplex VIII, a mere two months earlier. That was the joy of motherhood, what it could do for you. Müller wanted to share the woman’s elation. She knew she ought to. But instead she felt an emptiness, a desperation, a sharp stab of jealousy that almost physically invaded what was left of her ravaged womb, leaving her almost nauseous. The same sick feeling that had grabbed her in the demolished basement abortion clinic in Berlin. This woman had something that Müller herself wanted, something that now she would always be denied. She tried to empty her head of the thought, but it just wouldn’t let go.
Because there, cradled in her mother’s arms as she exercised her vocal cords in an almost deafening wail, was the baby they’d been searching for – her sharp, beak-like features unmistakeable, despite Wachtmeister Fernbach’s contention from a few months earlier that all newborn infants looked the same.
*
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ said Klara.
‘Well, she certainly has a fine set of lungs,’ replied Tilsner.
Müller herself initially said nothing, trying to get her head round this strange turn of events. She and Tilsner had had the whole journey back from Berlin to contemplate theories. Nothing they’d managed to come up with so far seemed to fit. Müller forced herself to smile, to try to feel ‘sympathetic joy’. It was something Gottfried had talked about after he began going to his church meetings, the meetings that – it was now apparent – had had little to do with actual religion. But that saying, ‘sympathetic joy’, stuck in her mind. Gottfried had said it had Buddhist origins. The opposite of Schadenfreude. Try as she might, Müller just wasn’t feeling it. Something was wrong, very wrong, with this happy family scene. But then, something was very wrong with this whole investigation. The sense of some big secret. The Stasi preventing proper searches. Janowitz constantly trying to undermine their investigation. And now this: the miraculous reappearance of the missing baby.
She got her notebook out of her pocket and clicked her retractable pen to the open position. ‘Can you tell me again, Frau Salzmann, exactly how and where Maddelena was found?’
‘Oh, I’ve already given a statement,’ the woman replied. Maddelena had calmed down now, as Klara bottle-fed her.
‘To Hauptmann Eschler,’ added her husband. ‘He was very helpful and understanding.’ The pointed implication in Reinhard Salzmann’s words was that – in asking the couple to repeat everything – Müller was being anything but helpful.
Müller gave another smile. She tried to make it appear sincere, but it wasn’t, and she could tell both the Salzmanns knew it wasn’t. ‘Nevertheless, I am the lead investigating officer. I’d like to go over everything again, please. After all . . .’ She glanced up at the mantelpiece, to the photographs of the twins in the hospital: Klara with Maddelena and Reinhard with Karsten. Then she trained her gaze back to Frau Salzmann, and stared hard at the woman. ‘After all, someone is still responsible for the death of your son. We’re determined to find out who, and to bring them to justice.’
A shadow passed over Klara Salzmann’s face. ‘That’s what we want too,’ the woman insisted, her voice cracking. ‘Of course it is. But having Maddelena safely back is . . . is something. Something for us to cling on to.’
‘It’s wonderful you’ve got her back safe and sound,’ said Müller. Wonderful, but highly suspicious.
‘Nevertheless,’ insisted Tilsner, ‘you do need to answer our questions. Even if you feel you’ve been over everything already. So just tell Oberleutnant Müller and me everything you told the Hauptmann. And if you can remember any extra details, so much the better. It might just be that one tiny detail, the one false move by Maddelena and Karsten’s abductor, that helps us to trap him . . . or her . . . Or them, if it was a couple.’
When Tilsner said this, Müller noticed what she took to be a warning glance pass from Reinhard Salzmann to his wife, as their newly found baby continued to make sucking noises at her mother’s feeding bottle.
*
Maddelena had been left on their doorstep late the previous evening, a dummy in her mouth to discourage her from crying.
‘Did you see who left her?’ asked Müller.
‘No. It was only when our neighbours came back from the theatre in Halle that they saw her, and rang our bell,’ replied Klara. So they had a witness, thought Müller. But what if the Salzmanns were the actual culprits? What if, for some reason, they had taken Maddelena and Karsten from the hospital back in July, and then something tragic had happened to Karsten? And – to deflect attention – they’d staged Maddelena’s disappearance, making it look as though both twins were victims of an abductor? Perhaps the dumping of Karsten’s body in the suitcase had been staged by them: again to give the impression of something sinister? As these thoughts raced through her head, Müller attempted to keep a neutral facial expression.
‘So she seemed to have been well cared for?’ asked Tilsner. ‘She wasn’t in any distress?’
Reinhard Salzmann gave a throaty laugh. ‘Look at her feeding. Does she look to be distressed? I would say she’s been very well cared for – don’t you agree, Liebling?’
His wife nodded rapidly. ‘We got in touch with the People’s Police straightaway, and the hospital. They sent a health visitor round to check her within a few minutes. Your Hauptmann Eschler took her bedding and the Moses basket away with him. I gave him the clothes she was dressed in too, and the pacifier.’
‘Did any of the other neighbours see or hear anything unusual?’ asked Müller.
Frau Salzmann gave a small shrug, while taking care not to disturb Maddelena. ‘We haven’t really had a chance to ask. We assumed the police would be doing that.’
Tilsner rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘And when your neighbours rang your bell, you were both in at the time?’
There was a brief pause before Frau Salzmann answered. Müller thought she saw a look pass between the couple. Is this whole story nothing but a fabrication? Are they in this together?
‘Yes, yes, we were both in. To be honest, we’ve been in waiting by the phone virtually every evening. Just hoping someone would ring.’
‘So,’ sighed Müller after a pause. ‘Do either of you have any idea who might have been behind all this? Do you have any enemies? Did anyone show any jealousy towards you during your pregnancy, Frau Salzmann, or when they knew you’d had twins?’
The woman stared rather blankly at Müller, shaking her head slowly, almost as though she wasn’t fully concentrating on the question. Then Müller realised Frau Salzmann’s eyes weren’t focussed on her, but on the mantelpiece behind. She followed the woman’s eyeline, to the photograph of her husband cradling her now dead son, Karsten, in the hospital ward. They now knew that Karsten had been the weaker of the two twins, the one the hospital staff had been most concerned about. It was almost certainly why he hadn’t survived the abduction, while Maddelena had.
Frau Salzmann fixed her eyes on Müller. To the detective it was clear that – for the first time during their visit, perhaps for the first time since Maddelena had been left on the doorstep – the mother was thinking of her dead son, not her living daughter.
The woman stifled a small sob, and when she spoke there was a hard edge to her voice. ‘Make sure you find whoever did this, Oberleutnant, please. Whoever caused my son to die – even if as the autopsy suggests they made a vain attempt to save him – deserves to be punished. It won’t bring our son back, but it might give us some comfort.’
35
Müller couldn’t shake off a sense almost of disappointment at Maddelena’s reappearance. She knew that was perverse. For the parents, this was little short of a miracle – for an abducted baby, one born several weeks prematurely, to be returned safe and well was almost unprecedented. Especially given what had happened to Karsten. She wanted to share their joy, but Müller suspected the picture of family togetherness was little more than
a front. They might have one of their babies back, but something was wrong in the Salzmann marriage. Very wrong.
Müller’s other concern was that for her and Tilsner this might mean their People’s Police bosses – or the bigwigs from the Ministry for State Security to whom they seemed to kowtow – would simply say there was no case left to investigate. She knew that wasn’t true. Someone had still taken both twins, and as a result, one of them had died. For that, they ought to be held to account. But as Müller and Tilsner waited in the incident room for a meeting called by the Halle city People’s Police to begin, they both knew the likelihood was that they would be returning to the Hauptstadt, the case unsolved. That Janowitz would finally get his way. For Müller that held an additional problem. What would now happen to her and Emil? She didn’t want to be separated from him, and the fortuitous way they had both ended up in the Halle area at the same time wasn’t likely to be repeated in the opposite direction. If she was sent back to the Hauptstadt, she would be on her own. Doing the same shitty jobs in Keibelstrasse that she’d only recently escaped from.
She glanced at Tilsner. He was doodling in his notebook with a vacant expression. He saw her watching and rolled his eyes, then gestured to the open doorway. ‘Look out,’ he whispered. ‘This looks like trouble.’
Dressed in his full People’s Police uniform, sharing a joke with Major Malkus of the Stasi as they walked down the corridor, was the Halle People’s Police colonel. Oberst Dieter Frenzel. Müller hadn’t met him yet, as until now he seemed to have been happy to leave her to her own devices, perhaps annoyed that his own Kripo team hadn’t been permitted to investigate the Salzmann twins case. Eschler spoke highly of him, but that was as much as Müller knew.