by David Young
‘We’ve pieced some of it together. It appears he would give her drugs to stop her periods and mimic the effects of pregnancy. And then there’d be some sort of emergency where she’d end up having a fake Caesarean. He’d anaesthetise her, she’d be out cold for a few days, he’d make an incision in her lower abdomen and then sew it up again, and then lo and behold a few days later she’d end up with a baby. Someone else’s baby.’
Tilsner squeezed Müller’s hand, hoping for some responding pressure from her. But it was limp, only the warmth of the still-circulating blood being pumped round her body – someone else’s donated blood – giving any hint of life.
‘So the Andereggs’ female twin – that was the first time they did it. They called her Stefi. Same as my daughter. But Franzi was a hopeless case. Neglected her, as far as we can gather. We don’t know what happened to the boy twin, but he died too, possibly from natural causes or neglect, and then they took them both with them to Berlin when they moved there in the late 1960s. One of them hid the bodies at Rothstein’s clinic, probably hoping someone would think they were dumped late-term foetuses. That’s what we thought initially, wasn’t it? And that’s where they chose all their targets – women who’d had abortions, either at that illegal clinic, or another in the Republic that the Stasi had records from.’
Still no response from Müller, but at least the life-support systems kept up their relentless rhythm. Tilsner knew enough about hospitals now to know it was when the waves and pulses and clicks stopped – when the line went flat – that there was trouble. But then, no doubt, there would be some sort of shrieking warning signal.
A nurse came in to check all the readings, but seemed satisfied and left again.
Tilsner resumed his monologue, hoping his update on the case might provoke some response in Müller. ‘And then, by last summer, the Traugotts were back in Halle-Neustadt. Hansi – Johannes to you – concocted another fake pregnancy with Franzi, getting help with the charade from a so-called doctor, who was nothing more than a stooge Johannes had some sort of hold over through his Stasi work. Then, lo and behold, their daughter Heike was ‘born’. Only she wasn’t really Heike, she was Maddelena Salzmann. We can only think that Hansi had planned to give Franzi twins – possibly to replace the ones killed in that car crash in the fifties by that drunken driver. But Karsten was sicklier than his sister. He was the one the medical staff had been concerned about, even while under twenty-four-hour care. Outside hospital, he didn’t survive.’
Another hand squeeze from Tilsner.
‘But where it starts to get strange is in the case of the half-Vietnamese kid, Tanja Haase.’ At the mention of Anneliese’s daughter’s name – perhaps the most tragic of the abductions and deaths, and the one Tilsner knew was closest to Müller’s heart as she’d actually seen the baby girl alive – Tilsner felt something. He thought for a moment that there had been a tiny squeeze back from Müller, but he dismissed it as simply a muscle reaction. ‘Pretty little Tanja. Well – according to Franzi – Hansi convinced her that their daughter Heike had to go into hospital for treatment. That was when he returned Maddelena to the Salzmanns by leaving her outside their apartment door. I suspect he’d heard – through his Stasi connections – about the handwriting search. Only when it looked like we’d got the wrong people, in the Rosenbaums, did he feel confident enough to carry out another abduction. So the girl they called “Heike” was suddenly out of hospital – looking healthier, cuter, and presumably with a darker skin. Because this new “Heike” in Franzi’s arms was, in fact, Tanja Haase.’
This time there was no doubt. As Tilsner had uttered the name Tanja, Müller had squeezed his hand.
He started squeezing back, in a random pattern, saying – almost shouting – the name Tanja Haase at the same time. He watched Müller’s lips, saw she was trying to form a word. Then something came out. He wasn’t sure if it was Tanja, or Tilsner or what. But it was something.
‘Nurse! Doctor! Emil! Come on, you arseholes. She’s trying to speak.’
61
Once he’d alerted everyone, Tilsner didn’t think it was his place to hang around and see what transpired. It was fabulous news that Müller had shown signs of communicating. But – from his own experience after the shooting in the Harz the previous year – Tilsner knew it would be a long struggle ahead to full fitness, if that ever happened. In any case, it looked certain things would be changing. Even if – as he and everyone else hoped – Müller was able to play a full and active role as mother to her two newly born twins, she almost certainly wouldn’t be able to continue as the head of a murder squad. Of course, that might produce an opening for promotion for himself, but it wasn’t something he coveted. He didn’t want the responsibility, the form-filling, the necessary kowtowing to superiors.
That was all in the future. For now, he was determined to get some sort of criminal charge to stick against Franziska Traugott, for all her protestations of innocence. The key – he knew – was Tanja Haase. Someone had killed her. He didn’t think it had been Johannes. For all Johannes’s twisted logic, his mind poisoned by what he saw as the theft of his family home, the killing in a car crash of his only two natural children, nothing Johannes had done pinpointed him as a murderer, although there was still a doubt over the Andereggs’ son. And if the killer wasn’t Hansi, it had to be Franzi. But it wasn’t all about getting her in front of a judge to face justice. Franzi could also prove useful – if, as he suspected, she could tell them more about that drunken driver, more about the doctored accident reports and – most importantly – exactly who had doctored them. Tilsner had a suspect in mind. The man who’d been trying to mothball the Kripo inquiry from the start. The odious Hauptmann Janowitz. But he needed Franzi to confirm his suspicions.
*
‘So Franziska, do you still maintain that it was your husband who was responsible for Tanja’s death?’
The woman gave a high-pitched, utterly inappropriate laugh that set her ample chest wobbling. And Franzi certainly had a lot of wood in front of her shed, thought Tilsner. But it didn’t make the package any more attractive. He rolled his eyes at Eschler, sitting by his side in the interview room.
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘That must have been what happened. Heike – well, you say she was called Maddelena, but to me she will always be Heike – was taken away. Then she came back. I was always worried she looked a bit different.’ She laughed again, but it died in her throat as she caught Tilsner and Eschler’s stern expressions. ‘So that must have been this Tanja you’re going on about. Then Hansi claimed the illness had returned.’
‘What illness?’ asked Tilsner. More and more he was thinking they weren’t going to get anywhere with Franzi. She should be questioned by a psychiatrist, not a detective.
‘Ah,’ said the woman, looking a little lost. ‘I never really asked him.’
Tilsner slammed his fist down on the table. The woman jumped back in her chair. ‘This is a load of shit you’re telling us, isn’t it, Franzi? You’re just making it up as you go along.’
‘No, honest to God! I’m trying to tell you the truth.’
‘Hmm,’ said Tilsner. ‘You need to try a lot harder.’
*
His next visit to Müller’s hospital bedside, the following day, stunned him. She wasn’t in bed anymore, she was sitting in a chair alongside, holding one twin to her right breast, while Emil Wollenburg proffered the other to her left-hand side.
‘Should I stay outside for a moment?’ he asked.
‘No, you’re all right, Werner.’ Müller smiled at him. All the colour had returned to her cheeks. A picture of motherly radiance.
‘Quite a change, isn’t it?’ laughed Emil.
Tilsner held his hands up. ‘A transformation. I don’t understand.’
‘With a coma triggered by blood loss,’ explained Emil, ‘if it’s only of brief duration, recovery can be quite rapid. Within an hour or so of you leaving yesterday, she was already starting to talk, wer
en’t you, Liebling?’
‘I don’t really remember much of that first hour,’ admitted Müller. ‘But now, I feel fine. Weak, tired, but fine.’
‘Have you decided on names for them yet?’
Tilsner watched a look pass between the couple. ‘Not that we’ve agreed on,’ she laughed. ‘So, no.’ She patted the bedclothes. ‘But sit down, Werner. Bring me up to date with the case. Did Johannes surv—’
‘No. We’ve still got his wife in custody, of course. But she’s bonkers, not just a bird in her head, but a whole fucking aviary.’ He watched Emil raise his eyes at the swear word. ‘Sorry,’ shrugged Tilsner.
‘So he did die from his injuries, from the fall?’
Tilsner frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘As I was losing consciousness, as I was being taken on the stretcher to the helicopter, I could have sworn I heard a sound muffled by the snow and the noise of the helicopter. The sound of gunshots.’
*
For Müller, recovery was quicker than she could reasonably have expected. The elation of motherhood seemed to banish tiredness. Despite the constant demands of the twins to be fed, the adrenalin racing through her body kept her alert and awake. So much so that she felt annoyed at being denied the chance to join Tilsner in the questioning of Franziska Traugott. She and Emil still hadn’t resolved the thorny issue of whether or when she would be going back to work – and in what capacity. It might, in any case, be taken out of her hands. Müller was determined to get back to the Hauptstadt – even if it meant returning to a desk job in Keibelstrasse once she was ready to resume her Kripo duties. She pressured Emil to end his temporary posting in Halle as soon as possible so that he could join her and the twins in Berlin.
The twins. Müller smiled to herself. They still hadn’t got names; she had rejected all Emil’s suggestions – most of them being traditional family names from his side. It meant the visit from Emil’s parents passed off awkwardly, with Emil’s mother insisting Girl Twin – as Müller thought of her – looked exactly like a Clothilde, her middle name. There was no way Müller was ever going to accept that. Emil and his father’s suggestion for Boy Twin – Meinhard – left her equally cold. Müller did have ideas for names for both, but thought she had more chance of getting Emil to agree if she left them nameless for a while longer. The nameless twins in the city of nameless streets. Somehow it felt appropriate.
Müller’s ecstatic mood – spreading a feeling of warmth and goodwill through her body – changed a couple of days after emerging from the brief coma, when Emil handed her a letter. She saw the emblem of the Ministry for State Security stamped on its front and immediately felt slightly breathless. Her boyfriend looked at her quizzically, but she resisted the temptation to open it straightaway. She knew what she hoped it contained, but it was something private; if it didn’t have the information she was searching for inside it, then she didn’t want Emil seeing her disappointment.
Finally, when he was out of the room taking the twins to the crèche so Müller could have a rest, she picked up the envelope from the bedside table and ripped it open.
In an instant, she knew Jäger had found what she wanted.
The name of the girl holding the baby in the photo her adoptive mother had given her. The address of her family in Leipzig. And confirmation from Jäger, or his sources within the Stasi, that yes, the baby in the photo was Müller, and yes, the girl was her mother.
62
Müller knew she wasn’t yet well enough for a trip to Leipzig. Even if she was physically up to it, she wasn’t sure her emotions could cope with more trauma, despite her burning desire to piece her family history together. More than that, the tantalising prospect that she might actually get to meet her real, natural birth mother. Over and over again, she stroked the photo of the girl and baby, scarcely believing it could be true.
As soon as she did feel well enough to travel anywhere, she insisted that Tilsner take her to the Red Ox, where Franziska Traugott was still incarcerated, but only when she was certain that Emil was able to look after the twins. Although she’d missed much of the questioning of the woman, Müller wanted to make up for lost time now. Tilsner had claimed the woman was out of her mind, and that they wouldn’t get anywhere with her. Müller was less convinced of her madness. She needed to hear the explanations for the woman’s terrible actions – and those of her husband, Müller’s childhood friend Johannes – from Franziska’s own mouth. If she could begin to understand her, perhaps even to empathise with her, they might yet find the key to this whole perplexing case.
*
‘What I don’t understand,’ said the woman, after repeating the version of events she’d already given Tilsner, ‘is where Hansi is. Can’t you at least allow him to visit me?’
Müller glared at Tilsner, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hadn’t they told the poor woman what had happened? Yes she was – at the very least – complicit in child abductions, if not worse. But to hide from her the news about Johannes’s fate seemed unnecessarily cruel.
‘I’m sorry, Franziska. Hansi won’t be visiting you. He’s –’
Before she’d completed the sentence, Müller watched Franziska Traugott’s face crumple as a terrible wail started from deep within the woman’s body.
‘No! No!’ she screamed, covering her eyes with her hands.
Müller reached out over the interview table and gently stroked her wrist. ‘I’m sorry, Franziska. There was a terrible accident.’
When Franziska finally uncovered her eyes, she stared right at Müller. There was an emptiness to them. Müller felt like she was being pulled into a deep pit. ‘Why didn’t they tell me?’ she asked, a flat note in her voice.
Still gripping the woman’s wrist, Müller gave a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Franziska. They should have.’ She glared again at Tilsner. He shrugged as though to say it wasn’t his fault.
*
Once the woman had composed herself a little, Müller decided to probe for more information.
‘I know it might be painful, Franziska, but I want you to try to cast your mind back nearly twenty years ago. To the late fifties. When you first had children. They were twins, weren’t they?’
‘I don’t like to talk about the past,’ she said. ‘Hansi says it’s not good for me.’
Tilsner slapped the table with his fist. ‘That won’t wash now, Franziska. He’s not here. You need to tell us everything. You have to answer all our questions.’
‘All we need to know, Franziska,’ said Müller, more gently, ‘are a few details.’ Müller looked down in her notebook, even though she’d memorised what the children were called immediately. It was just a way of avoiding the woman’s stare for a few seconds. ‘Monika and Tomas were their names, weren’t they?’
The woman didn’t say anything, but simply nodded.
‘Now, we don’t think you’ve ever got proper justice for what happened to them. It may help your current case if . . .’ Müller wondered to herself what to say. She didn’t want to falsely raise the woman’s hopes. ‘. . . if we can establish what happened that night.’
Franziska Traugott stared straight ahead, saying nothing – as though she was focussing on a point on the wall behind Müller and Tilsner. Her expression was odd – almost beatific, trance-like. It unnerved Müller.
‘Did you hear the Oberleutnant?’ prompted Tilsner.
Franziska gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Well – then – what – is – the – answer?’ Tilsner enunciated each word, as though he were speaking to a foreigner with limited command of German.
The woman closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then – still with her eyes tightly shut – she began to speak. ‘He was drunk. Absolutely blind drunk. That’s what Hansi said. Never should have been on the road. We were on the crossing, and one second I was pushing the pram, the next –’
Müller stroked the woman’s hand again.
‘Luckily Hansi was a bit behind us, it missed
him. But he saw it all. He was never the same after that. Neither of us were. I was in hospital for weeks. They say I suffered serious brain injuries. When I came round, Hansi broke it to me that . . . that . . . my . . . babies –’
The woman closed her eyes and was almost completely still. Müller could see her repeatedly swallowing, trying to banish the memories.
‘It’s OK,’ said Müller. ‘You don’t need to tell us every detail, Franziska, not if it’s upsetting. Did the driver stop?’
The woman took a long slow breath, then exhaled equally slowly, trying to gather herself. ‘Oh yes, Hansi told me he stopped all right, eventually. He got out of the car, staggering up the road towards Hansi, gesticulating angrily. Didn’t give two seconds of thought for my babies, or me. He might as well have hit a pile of horse shit for all he cared. And Hansi said his breath stank. Stank to high heaven of drink. Hansi ignored him, rushed over to the remains of the pram, but he could immediately tell there was no hope. No life. But I still had a weak pulse. It was already a miracle that I’d been able to have children, because of what happened –’
The woman stopped speaking suddenly, and began almost hyperventilating. Taking huge, wracking breaths of air into her lungs.
‘Sorry. Hansi says I should never think about it, that there’s so much to look forward to. That it’s bad for me, remembering those days. It can bring on my turns.’
Müller squeezed the woman’s fingers. ‘Just take your time, Franziska. This is very useful. Just take your time.’
‘At the end of the war, when the Red Army came. We were frightened. We hid from them.’
Müller had a mounting sense of dread. What was the woman about to say?
‘I was just thirteen. Thirteen! Can you believe it? They raped me again and again and again. I was pregnant – at thirteen!’ Müller had a sudden flash of the photograph of her own mother and herself. Was that the fate that had befallen her too? She found her heart breaking for the woman – no wonder Johannes, or Hansi as she knew him, had always urged Franzi not to think about it. More images crowded Müller’s brain. Images of her own violation, her own rape. She shuddered. ‘I gave birth but there was no one there to help me. My sister had gone to the American zone. My mother had died. It was terrible. There was awful damage to my insides, from the rape and childbirth. They said I’d never be able to have children again. Yet they took my baby daughter away. They took her away. The bastards.’