Stasi Wolf

by David Young

  ‘So does that mean you can’t help? This is really important – I need to know who was originally mentioned in these reports. Their identity may be the key to unlock a case we’re working on.’

  Stober rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, everyone tells me what they need is absolutely vital, and they need it yesterday. I hope we can help, but it may take a bit of time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘By tomorrow morning? Would that do?’

  Tilsner had a sudden vision of Petra Stober in the morning. She was wearing minimal make-up now. He imagined her morning face would be much the same – stunningly beautiful.

  She knew he was staring. ‘Is that OK, Unterleutnant?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. Can you ring me with it at the Ha-Neu incident room?’

  52

  Petra Stober was as good as her word. But there was a problem. She’d managed to uncover the names of the mother and father of the victims of the road traffic accident. But the second report, the one concerning the drunk driver, had been more heavily doctored. Before correction fluid had been applied, the typed name had been scratched out. There was no way Stober could recover any of it. The Stasi had done their job well. What was it – or who was it – that they wanted to keep concealed? He was sure it couldn’t be coincidence.

  Using what information she had managed to find, the next day Tilsner set about trying to track the parents down with Wiedemann’s help – if indeed they still lived in the Halle area. After ploughing through various lists of citizens’ addresses, Wiedemann found them. ‘Here they are, Comrade Unterleutnant.’

  Tilsner peered over his shoulder at the address. As he did so, a chill ran through him. This looked like a fuck-up, a major fuck-up. His police instinct knew immediately that the apparently innocuous accident report uncovered by Weidemann was the key to this whole damn case. He cross-checked the address against Malkus’s ‘prohibited’ list, pulling it out of his pocket – the half a dozen or so names that the Ministry for State Security had banned the People’s Police from investigating. They were on that. And that wasn’t the only thing that made Tilsner’s heart sink. He recognised the address even if he didn’t have the same near-photographic memory that Karin possessed. Komplex VIII. Block 358. Apartment 328. The flat that was bang next door to the Rosenbaums. Somewhere they should have searched straightaway, as soon as the Rosenbaums’ alibis had been corroborated. Yes, it had been Frau Rosenbaum’s newspaper, and her completed crossword puzzle after all. Not the one the Pioneers had collected – that was an issue from when Castro had visited, weeks after Karsten’s body had been dumped. But the handwriting in that paper – the one swaddling the baby boy’s torso – was Rosenbaum’s. Of that, Tilsner was now certain. Her next-door neighbour must have picked up one of her discarded newspapers.

  *

  They weren’t dealing with an armed gang – at least not as far as Tilsner was aware. Nevertheless, after what had happened in the Harz he was taking no chances. He got his Makarov from the drawer, made sure it was loaded and that he had spare ammunition, and then went to get Eschler and Fernbach. He didn’t want to give this bastard – or these bastards if there was more than one – any chance of escape.

  *

  Tilsner and Eschler left Fernbach guarding the top of the third-floor stairwell – making sure no one could get in or out of the corridor – while they approached the entrance to Apartment 328. It was one door further on from the Rosenbaums. As Eschler stood to one side, gun drawn, Tilsner slammed his foot against the door, right at the point where the lock married with the frame. Once, twice, three times he kicked the heel of his boot against it until the frame splintered and the door gave way. With his hand holding the Makarov at the ready, he entered, with Eschler following – having already warned nosy neighbours to get back inside their own apartments.

  Inside the flat, there was silence. They checked each of the rooms – lounge, both bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom. No one. But in the second bedroom there was something that told Tilsner his suspicions weren’t misplaced. A cot. Baby toys. Empty bottles. Nappies and other infant paraphernalia. And in the lounge – on the mantelpiece – something that left Tilsner clenching his jaw, his nostrils flaring. A photograph showing a rather overweight woman who looked too old for motherhood, standing next to a gangly, bespectacled man. Holding a baby that Tilsner immediately recognised – as Tanja Haase. Next to that photograph, another of the same two adults cradling another baby, who again, Tilsner knew at first glance. Maddelena Salzmann. One of the two abducted Salzmann twins. The one who disappeared, then miraculously reappeared, with no one any the wiser. Another photograph alongside that of the same woman, looking a little younger and considerably larger, wearing 1960s fashion, with another baby. And a final one with the woman and man younger still, this time cradling a baby each. Tilsner didn’t know for certain – other than in the case of Tanja and Maddelena – who the babies were. But that final photo – he was sure – was of the infants who’d been killed in the collision.

  Tilsner turned, and stared Eschler in the face. ‘Scheisse,’ he swore. ‘We’ve all fucked up big time here. They’ve been under our noses all this time. And now they’ve legged it.’

  ‘Yes, but legged it where?’

  Tilsner gave a long sigh and slumped down on the sofa, staring at the photographs of all the babies and the half-crazed adults who’d stolen them. ‘I’ve no idea. No idea at all. But someone’s been protecting them, just as someone’s trying to protect the drunk who was driving the car.’

  53

  When Müller regained consciousness, she had an initial rush of joy surge through her. She was alive. And, she knew, she was a mother at last. All the hurt, all the terrible memories of Walter Pawlitzki, all had been wiped away. She knew she wouldn’t be having to open her secret drawer anymore in the flat in Schönhauser Allee. No more stroking of those baby clothes. She’d burn them and put the past – finally – to bed.

  Müller beamed at the nurse when she arrived for her morning round. She hadn’t wanted to know the sex of her child before delivery, but now she needed to know if she had a son or a daughter. She wanted, needed to hold him or her. To cradle her baby in her arms and feed it from her breasts.

  ‘Is it a boy or girl?’ she asked, aware she sounded slightly breathless.

  ‘Now then, Frau Müller,’ chided the nurse. ‘You said you didn’t want to know. We’re under strict instructions.’

  ‘Yes, but that was before.’

  The nurse’s sunny face creased in puzzlement. ‘Before what?’

  Müller found herself getting increasingly frustrated. ‘Before my Caesarean. Before my baby –’

  The nurse’s eyes opened wide. She grabbed the sheet Müller had been holding up towards her chin and yanked it down. The dressings, the contracted state of Müller’s stomach told her all she needed to know.

  ‘Oh my God.’ The nurse ran over to an alarm button on the side of the wall and pressed it. A siren blared.

  As Müller covered her ears, panic coursed through her. ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ she shouted. ‘Where’s my baby?’

  The nurse ignored her. ‘Doctor, doctor,’ she screamed from the doorway. ‘Come here immediately.’

  *

  Müller still couldn’t understand what was wrong. Why wouldn’t they let her hold her child? What was all the panic about? Everything felt like a living nightmare. She wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.

  Only when Emil finally arrived did she start to calm slightly.

  ‘They won’t let me hold the baby. They won’t even tell me what sex he or she is. Do you know, Emil? Do you know?’ She searched her doctor boyfriend’s face for an answer, but his appearance was as ashen and pale as everyone else’s.

  Finally, he took Müller’s hands in his own.

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Karin. You have to stay calm and I’m sure it will all get sorted out. Yes, you have had your Caesarean. You haven’t dreamt it. But we don’t k
now who performed it. And we don’t know where the babies are.’

  ‘Babies. Oh my God! You mean twins?’

  Emil nodded. ‘A boy and a girl – the hospital knew all along from the ultrasound, but you insisted you didn’t want to know. But I’m sure we’re going to find them. There’s just been some horrible mix up.’

  ‘This isn’t a mix up. Someone’s stolen my twins!’ She started to try to get out of bed, her breathing coming in short gasps, but Emil held her down. He gestured with his head to the nurse, who started preparing a sedative injection.

  ‘No!’ Müller shouted, fighting against her boyfriend. ‘You have to let me up. I have to find them.’ But the prick of the needle in her arm defeated her.

  54

  Two months earlier: January 1976

  Komplex VIII, Halle-Neustadt

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell Hansi. I can’t tell him the truth. He’s been so good to me that it can’t end like this.

  Perhaps I could say she’s been stolen. I heard some of the women gossiping about stolen babies. One was taken in Halle a few months ago, they were saying. Right in the city centre, near the Handel monument. Right where everyone could see. Couldn’t someone have stopped them?

  But then if I said that, the police would come round. They’d find out what really happened. I have nightmares every night about her perfect little face. Perfect in every respect, except for those eyes.

  Hansi isn’t so perfect himself. I know he isn’t. He has his secrets. He must keep them in that metal box that he never lets me look in. The one with the padlock on. Says it’s his Ministry work. His Ministry secrets. Well, we all have secrets, Hansi. Perhaps I need to discover a few of yours.

  *

  I crash the hammer down on the lock. The neighbours will hear, but I no longer care. Crash. Crash. Crash. Sometimes I can surprise myself with my own strength. I take the hammer up high behind my head and bring it down again, right where the lock, hasp and staple join. Then again.

  The noise must have alerted the neighbours. Someone’s knocking on the door. Just ignore it, Franzi, they’ll go away. It’s coming loose. One more big blow. And there we are, the hasp and staple hang free, their attaching bolts severed and bent.

  *

  I don’t know what I expected to find. Perhaps half of me thought it would just be his Ministry business, secret documents, that sort of thing. What I do find, I don’t really understand.

  There are newspaper cuttings, taken – it looks like – from the Party newspaper, Neues Deutschland. About the opening of new state tourist facilities for winter sports. Well, that’s not much of a secret. A photo of a pretty, blond-haired girl. She’s aged around five, six . . . seven. It’s hard to tell. Is it a secret sister, a secret daughter?

  But under that are pamphlets, leaflets. And I suddenly realise this is my bargaining tool. I have my secret and Hansi has his. Because this can’t be to do with his Ministry work, not if he was keeping it hidden. I don’t understand all the words, but I can tell they are dangerous. Anti-republic. Anti-state. Anti-communist. There are lists of names, addresses, telephone numbers. This is something I can bargain with. All the pamphlets are headed with the name of the same organisation – and it sounds very much like a name the authorities wouldn’t approve of. That Hansi’s Ministry colleagues wouldn’t approve of. The Committee for the Dispossessed.

  55

  Two months later: March 1976

  Halle-Neustadt

  Tilsner racked his brain over what they could do, where they could look for the couple. Oberst Frenzel immediately agreed to an all-bulletins alert across the Republic: their car, a Lada, had its registration circulated. Frenzel even agreed to roadblocks at the entrance and exits to Ha-Neu. The previous policy of keeping everything hush-hush – the one Müller and Tilsner had continually railed against – now seemed to have been abandoned. But then that had been at the behest of the Stasi. Frenzel seemed at last to be willing to put proper policing above the needs of the secret police.

  Malkus was less cooperative, initially refusing to get the Ministry for State Security involved in the alert. Tilsner knew he could go over his head, using Jäger’s connections in the Hauptstadt, but ideally he needed the head of the local Stasi onside.

  ‘Do you not want us to solve this case and arrest the culprits, Comrade Major?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ countered Malkus, staring hard at the police detective. ‘But the facts remain the same. We don’t want the population of this city alarmed. I’ll be having words with Oberst Frenzel, asking him to remove the roadblocks. We’re getting a lot of complaints. People want to know what it’s all about.’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ said Tilsner. ‘But then you yourself said the reason for keeping our inquiry secret was so as not to spook the Castro visit. Well, that’s been and gone a long time, so that excuse won’t wash anymore. But before and after that, your good captain Janowitz has seemed suspiciously eager to get the case closed down.’ Tilsner knew he was treading a fine line in challenging the Stasi officer. But he also knew that if things got nasty he could exert pressure on Jäger. There were advantages to knowing things about people’s pasts, and Tilsner knew plenty about Klaus Jäger. And Jäger – should he choose – could eat Malkus for breakfast.

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ continued Tilsner, ‘is exactly why Janowitz wants to see the back of us.’ He didn’t know if he should reveal his hand in telling Malkus about the road traffic reports. But if he could drive a wedge between Malkus and his deputy, it might help them. And sometimes, if you wanted to catch an apple, you needed to give the tree a good shake. ‘You see, I think we’re closer to finding out, thanks to the help of Comrade Wiedemann in the records department.’ Tilsner was standing over Malkus’s desk, determined to outstare him, having refused the Stasi major’s offer of a low seat. He watched now as uncertainty began to enter Malkus’s expression.

  ‘What’s Wiedemann found?’

  ‘An interesting road traffic accident from the late fifties.’

  Malkus crossed his arms over his stomach, drawing his body into itself.

  ‘Why would something like that have any relevance?’

  Tilsner watched the man shift uncomfortably. ‘It wouldn’t look very good if your Hauptmann Janowitz was involved in doctoring evidence, would it? Especially as the driver was drunk. And even if it wasn’t Janowitz, someone in the Stasi doctored the files. I have the evidence.’ Tilsner knew it was a wild shot in the dark. The trouble was, it was all he had.

  Malkus’s face seemed to have relaxed a little. ‘Well, I hope your evidence is strong, Comrade Oberleutnant. Otherwise you’re playing a dangerous game. Nevertheless, now you’ve raised the matter, I’m obliged to look into it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tilsner. ‘And perhaps you might want to reconsider asking for the roadblocks to be removed. We want to catch these culprits, and I’m sure you do too. Now if Hauptmann Janowitz is somehow involved, it’s very convenient for him to not want a full search, to want the inquiry mothballed, and for Oberleutnant Müller and myself to be sent back to Berlin, don’t you think?’

  Malkus was rising from his chair, and began to usher Tilsner out of his office. ‘As I’ve said, Comrade Unterleutnant, I will look into it and consider what you’ve said. But I can’t promise anything. Other than that if you’ve been making unfounded allegations against one of my officers, there will be hell to pay. You can be sure of that’

  *

  While Frenzel organised Eschler, Fernbach and his men, Tilsner felt he owed it to Karin to bring her up to speed. But when he got to the hospital he realised something was very wrong.

  ‘You can’t speak to her,’ said her boyfriend, Emil Wollenburg.

  ‘There are things she needs to know,’ Tilsner replied.

  The doctor boyfriend’s shoulders slumped. ‘You don’t understand. Something awful has happened. We don’t know what to do. We’re searching everywhere.’

  Tilsner grabbed him by the la
pels of his jacket. ‘What? What’s happened? Tell me quickly.’

  ‘Our babies,’ sobbed Emil.

  ‘Whose babies?’ shouted Tilsner. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Karin and my babies.’

  ‘Twins? She’s had twins? How can you lose them?’

  ‘Someone’s stolen them. From her womb.’

  Tilsner heard a huge roar, and then realised it came from himself, as he knocked the man aside and rushed into Müller’s hospital room. He could see she looked confused, groggy, drugged. Her eyes not properly focussing on him, a nurse by her side.

  ‘Werner. Oh, Werner.’

  Tilsner didn’t know what to do. He needed her fully functioning. Pushing the nurse to one side, he picked up a glass of water from the bedside table and threw it in Müller’s face.

  ‘What! Why the –’

  ‘There’s no time to waste, Karin. Pull yourself together and come with me now.’

  The nurse started to try to pull him away. ‘She’s just had a major operation – it’s too –’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Tilsner. ‘She’s coming with me.’

  Müller had groggily started to get out of bed and was pulling her jacket on over her nightgown. More doctors, and Emil Wollenburg himself, had now surrounded the bedside.

  ‘This is madness, Karin. You don’t know where you’re going, what –’

  At that point, Tilsner’s radio crackled into life. He answered it. It was Eschler.

  ‘Come to the incident room immediately. We’ve got a witness reckons he’s spotted the woman – with a baby.’

  56

  Müller was only barely aware of what was happening. She just had some primal instinct driving her on. The sedatives had numbed her feelings, but she still felt and shared Tilsner’s sense of urgency. Emil seemed unable to look her in the eye. The doctors and nurses, too, only made token efforts to try to stop her going with her deputy. One thing, one desperate thing, drove her on: she’d been cheated out of being a mother once, or perhaps – in choosing to abort the children of a rapist – she’d cheated herself. She needed to save her and Emil’s children.