‘There is something else.’
‘What?’
‘There’s your perpetrator’s file.’
The assistant fetched a separate file of reports for the Stasi and said quietly: ‘That’s your handwriting, isn’t it?’
And it was her handwriting. It was Christa Wolf who had written these reports about her colleagues for the Stasi many decades previously. She had been spied on, and she had spied on others.
‘I had completely forgotten about that,’ she said. The assistant replied: ‘We hear that a lot here.’
I believed Christa Wolf. I believed that she had forgotten her brief affair with the Stasi as a young woman, because a human life is very long and many memories vanish along the way, especially the more inconvenient ones.
What had my mother really hoped to find in the archive? A trace of my brother? Information about the traitor? Or the opposite: reassurance that no evidence remained at all, that no one could ever accuse her of anything, that the past would remain forever silent? My mother had been a victim, of course she had been a victim. But there had to be a reason why she had not told us about the file. She had felt ambivalent about it, maybe even frightened. Perhaps her own conscience had not been free of guilt.
Ah, this was what Licht had warned me about, the danger of speculating. But it was impossible not to speculate.
*
I forced myself to look at the photos. My own scowling face, poor scared Tobi, Heiko with his big, startled eyes. He was looking right at me. There was a scribbled name in the margins: Peter Bauer, or Peer Bauer, or Petra Baner. The name of some official, probably, but I looked up all the versions online just in case.
Millions of results popped up, images of men and women that looked not even remotely familiar. Not surprising; no one would scribble a boy’s adoptive name in the margin of a form, especially not an East German official. There would have been a procedure, a certificate, a separate piece of paper marking the passage from Heiko Valentin to – to whoever he was now. How had we Germans ever survived without paper? I pictured the first medieval scribe sitting in a damp castle in Nuremberg and clutching a sheet of woven hemp: On this flat and surprisingly sturdy piece of material we will write down everything – music, religion, philosophy, poetry, as well as the names of all the people we have tortured and burnt at the stake, and future generations will read it and admire us.
A tiredness came over me. I had spoken more about my family in the past twenty-four hours than in the previous twenty-four years, and yet I was as confused as ever. I put Heiko’s form to one side and looked at the section with the transcripts.
The layout was like that of a play for two actors. Reading the lines, I soon recognised my mother’s voice: stubborn and defiant at first, later pleading and frightened. The second voice, the interrogator’s voice, changed from page to page. It was friendly, it was threatening, it was brutal, it was reassuring, it was relentless, it was full of empathy, it was so cold as to be almost inhuman. Question. Answer. Question. Answer. Question. Question. Question.
When we are done, there will be no part of your mind we won’t know. We will be completely at home in your mind, we will be there always.
I tried to picture my mother’s interrogator. Was he one person, or many? Did he, or they, have a name? I turned to her notebook and scanned the long rambling lists for a description, a clue to an identity. I found a scribbled aside:
In some way I looked forward to my interrogations. I had been in solitary for so long, and at least he was another human being.
And, a few pages later:
Years ago I was in the supermarket with Ellachen and saw a man who looked like my interrogator. I turned around and walked out and only when I reached the corner of the street did I realise that Ellachen was still in the shop. I had just left her there.
I remembered the incident, remembered running from aisle to aisle and asking strangers if they had seen my mother, remembered the manager’s office, the kindness on the manager’s face when she leaned close to the microphone and asked the mother of little Ella to come to the office next to till number five, please.
I remembered waiting and getting more and more anxious and then seeing Mama in the door, pale-faced, sweaty, tearful.
What I don’t remember is a man who looked like an East German interrogator. What did East German interrogators look like, anyway?
Page by page I went through the entire file. My progress was slow, my German clearly worse than I had thought. I opened one online dictionary, then another. I looked up abbreviations, bureaucratic jargon, jailhouse euphemisms. Towards the back of the file I found a photocopy of a heavily damaged document. The page was criss-crossed by thin black lines where it had been taped together. It was a list of dates and names: guards on night duty, guards on day duty, guards who escorted the prisoner to her interrogation, guards who escorted her back to her cell. And then:
17.9.1987 Interrogation conducted by: Hptm. Kuboweit
Hptm. I racked my brain, frustrated again by the limits of my German. One of the dictionaries helped me out. Hptm. stood for Hauptmann, a military rank, about the same as captain.
I found Hauptmann Kuboweit on four or five other pages. He had meticulously signed off each transcript after correcting it. Small errors were circled or struck out. Each change was carefully initialled. It was risky to construct a phantom image from a voice on a page and a few handwritten lines, but I could not help it. I pictured him as a small, pedantic, ferret-like man; quick, sharp and sarcastic; smelling of aftershave, of Privileg. Perhaps he had even been charming, at times.
In some way I looked forward to my interrogations.
I typed ‘Stasi Kuboweit’ into a search engine, expecting nothing much, but found a few forums for former GDR prisoners that mentioned him. His name was on photocopied lists of Stasi employees that had been distributed illegally by protesters in the years after reunification, and later scanned and uploaded. People had apparently stolen these lists from archives and handed them out on public squares, in universities, at factory gates, like flyers for a concert. It made me uneasy, this form of virtual mob justice, yet here I was, benefiting from it. What surprised me more was how active these forums still were. It was not just former prisoners who commented; former Stasi officers weighed in as well.
Görlitz62: Stasi pigs: we’re coming for you.
FähnrichP: CRY BABIES. When will you ever get over it?!!
An entire thread was devoted to Kuboweit, chronicling his seesawing career. He’d quickly found a new job after reunification, first as a private security consultant, then in real estate. Now he ran an executive coaching service.
The people in that thread who’d met Kuboweit, who’d been his prisoners, did not say much about what he’d actually been like, or what he’d done. In fact, not a single person in the thread talked about their own experience in any detail. And this made it all feel so genuine to me, because I could see my mother at her computer, carefully considering each sentence before she typed it, keen to avoid giving too much away, or indeed giving anything away. It was all about Kuboweit, his whereabouts over the past few decades, his estimated pension, and how outrageous it was that he was walking about, a free man.
At the bottom of one of the threads, someone had posted a link to Kuboweit’s new coaching business. I clicked, and a bland, plain website came up, with some text about strength and strategy, and a contact form. Not even a photo; I wondered if the business was just a front. I went back to the thread, to the post with the link, which also included an address.
Mob justice was wrong. Outing people online was wrong. Spying on spies was wrong. I knew this was not the right way of going about things, but I wrote down the address anyway, and wondered what I would ask Hauptmann Kuboweit, and how he might respond.
*
I returned to the transcripts. In the reading room I had struggled to picture the scene of the interrogation, but after my visit to Hohenschönhausen, the images came easily. A
small room, no windows except for a few glass bricks. My mother on one of the two chairs, handcuffed, drugged by tiredness. A metal filing cabinet in the corner, an empty desk, another chair. He was standing by the desk, looming over her. Every now and then she tilted to one side, and a guard appeared from behind and straightened her up.
I read page after page. First slowly, carefully, and then I began to flick through them, skipping ahead, thinking that I could always go back to this and that bit. I needed to know now, right now, what this file could tell me about Heiko, because that was what mattered most.
It was long past midnight by the time I’d looked through everything. In any case, sleep would be impossible. I picked up my phone.
Just finished, I texted Aaron. He replied almost immediately.
The whole file?
Yes.
That was fast. You OK?
I could do with a drink.
Sure. Same place?
God no. Prenzl Berg? Pub at the top of Lychener Str.? “Rosalind”.
I added a second text: I don’t know why it’s called Rosalind.
He replied: I’m on my way.
I flicked back to one of the transcripts and very carefully took it out of the folder. Then I pinned Heiko’s photo to it. I thought, if I ever waver during this search, if I ever think it’s taking too long, or taking over my life, or just not worth it, I will come back to this transcript, I will read it again, and I will keep going.
Transcript of the Interrogation of the Accused
Dr VALENTIN, Regine
born 6.1.1947 in Berlin
2/3
ANSWER: There is no reason to put my children in a home! My mother promised to take care of them.
QUESTION: Your mother knew about your plan?
ANSWER: No, no, we only agreed that she would take them if anything happened to us. I’m very tired, I don’t think I can continue answering these questions.
QUESTION: She was going to take them if you were arrested, you mean?
ANSWER: She was going to take care of them if we ever had an accident or if we fell sick. Those are normal arrangements that all families make, no? I don’t know, I’m so tired, I’m finding it very hard to concentrate.
QUESTION: Your attempted escape from the Republic, was that part of your normal family arrangements, too?
ANSWER: I’ve told you, my mother knew nothing of our plans. If she had known, she would have tried to prevent us from leaving. My mother is completely loyal to this country and the party, but I don’t need to tell you that, you know that already. Do we need to go through this again? I’m so tired.
QUESTION: And you, you’re not loyal to this country?
ANSWER: Of course I’m loyal to this country, I just don’t like what it’s been turned into.
STATEMENT: That’s agitation against the state.
ANSWER: I apologise. I’m tired, I don’t know what I’m saying.
STATEMENT: We’ve spoken to your mother. She has long been ashamed of your hostile attitude towards the state and said you often neglected your children to attend illegal gatherings in your neighbourhood. Her exact words were, and I quote, ‘What can I say, she made her bed and will now have to lie in it. I cannot take the children and I believe they are better off in a children’s home where they will receive a solid Socialist upbringing.’
ANSWER: I don’t believe those are my mother’s words.
QUESTION: Are you accusing us of fabricating your mother’s statement?
ANSWER: I’m sorry, of course not, it’s just that it doesn’t sound like her, surely you understand that to me at least, it doesn’t sound like… I don’t know. Yes, maybe she said that, I don’t know. If you say so. It must be right. Yes? Is that a good answer? I’m very tired. Please, I can’t think straight. I’m really very tired.
QUESTION: Who gave you the sedative you administered to your children?
ANSWER: I’ve already told you, I made it myself, I grew valerian in my window box and then I made a tea with it and gave it to them. No one helped me.
QUESTION: A few more sips and you would be sitting here as a child murderer.
ANSWER: It was only a homemade tea, I don’t think it was that strong.
STATEMENT: If we charge you with attempted murder, you will never see the sun again. You will spend the rest of your life in prison. And believe me, child murderers don’t have it easy in prison. Why don’t you co-operate? You could be out of here in no time at all, you could be back with your children. Don’t you care about them? Ella, Tobias and Heiko. Heiko is only two, isn’t he? I hear that he has stopped eating, surely that cannot be what you want.
INTERJECTION: He has stopped eating?
STATEMENT: His carers have no choice but to force-feed him.
INTERJECTION: Why carers? Why isn’t he with my mother? You can’t force-feed my little boy, please don’t, he will eat if you’re patient with him, please be gentle with him.
STATEMENT: You can be back with your little boy by tomorrow if you co-operate. All you have to do is tell us whose idea it was, who else knew and who helped you. We can see that you want to tell us. You want to unburden yourself, yes, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To let it all go, to let go of all that weight, and then go back to your bed and sleep. Come now, let’s start at the beginning.
21
Berlin 1987: Autumn
HOW CAN I DESCRIBE our return home, to Oma, to our little flat with the bathtub in the kitchen? For the first few days I was down with a raging flu, sweating through pyjamas and bed sheets, shivering until my bones rattled, groaning from the deep ache in my arms and legs. Tobi fell ill too, so ill that Oma called a doctor. He recommended cold-soaked linen wraps around the legs and a hot potato wrap around the throat.
I lay in bed and thought of Heiko. Where was he? Was he with Mama and Papa? And where were they? Maybe they’d been taken away to prison. And Heiko, to a prison for children. Maybe he was lying on a bed all by himself. Clutching his pillow and whispering, ‘Auto.’ The thought was unbearable. The thought of Heiko being alone was unbearable. He had never been away from us, not a single night. All he knew was our home, and Oma’s flat, and his nursery. He would be terrified among strangers. And because it was unbearable, I told myself that it could not be. It could simply not be. He had to be with Mama, at least. Papa was in hospital, slowly getting better. Heiko was with Mama. He missed us, he was confused, he wanted to go home, but at least he was with Mama. She held him tight, and let him wipe his nose on her shoulder.
Opa dismantled the empty cot and stored it away.
At night, in the darkness, no little boy sang garbled songs to himself. No little voice said ‘Auto’, ‘Bussss’, ‘wheel’, as if to remind himself of everything that was beautiful in the world.
Sometimes I felt an icy little hand on my face or my arm, tugging me out of my sleep. It was Tobi, asking to come into my bed so that when the burglars came, they would find his own bed empty.
*
The flat felt like a waiting room. No one tore about, shrieking and yelling. We waited and waited for someone to call us in and tell us that a mistake had been made, and here was our family, and everything would go back to how it used to be.
Oma made pancakes and milk rice, heart-shaped waffles topped with icing sugar and cream, meatballs with onion gravy, golden fried schnitzels, potato salad dripping with mayonnaise and chives, goulash stew with dumplings, sweet baked apples in pools of vanilla sauce.
‘Eat, Tobi! Ellachen, eat!’
‘I’m not hungry,’ I said.
Tobi pushed away his plate. ‘Where is Mama?’
One morning I asked Oma how much longer Papa would be in hospital. She flinched.
‘Is he getting better?’ I asked. ‘Can we go and visit?’
‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘no, we cannot go and visit.’
She took a loaf from the bread tin, cut off two slices and spread them with margarine.
‘Ellachen.’ She waved one of the slices i
n front of my face. ‘Ellachen, please, you have to eat.’
‘When is Papa coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And Mama?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you like bread any more? Would you like some cheese instead?’
‘And Heiko? Where is Heiko?’
‘Heiko is being looked after.’
‘Where? Who’s looking after him?’
‘Don’t ask me these questions, Ellachen. I can’t answer them. I know less than you do, I wasn’t even there.’ She avoided looking at me, picked up a rag and began to wipe down the kitchen surfaces. ‘What’s your mother going to say if she hears that you’re refusing to eat?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Ella, I said I don’t know. I don’t know for sure. But I think the police are asking her questions about what happened, that’s what I think.’
It was the most honest conversation I would have with Oma during that time. Later someone must have spoken to her and convinced her to adopt a different script, because in the weeks that followed she told me that Heiko was being looked after by friends of my parents who lived in the countryside, too far away to visit. It was no use phoning, either, because he was too small to understand and would only be upset at hearing my voice. My mother, she said, was in a place where she would have some time to think about her actions. No, she could not come to see us, not for a while.
‘You mean she’s in prison?’ I asked.
‘Shush!’
But a few days later, she said I could write my mother a letter, it would cheer her up.
‘So she is in prison?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What do people eat in prison?’ I asked. ‘Nothing but bread and water?’
Confession with Blue Horses Page 16