by Paul Grant
Eva was worried for her brother. ‘What are we going to do, Dad?’
Klaus didn’t want to reveal to her the real extent of his concern. He knew there was nothing they could do if he was in prison. He also knew time was short.
‘We’ll think of something.’ He winked at her. ‘What time is your mother due back?’
‘Around four thirty, I suppose.’
They were back in front of the hotel now.
He handed Eva the key to the room. ‘Go up and wait for your mum,’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’
He sighed. ‘There’s only one place left. The Wild Boar.’
***
Eva had protested, but he waved away her concerns, telling her he would be fine, and would see them both before dark. Even though he’d told her not to worry, Klaus had no idea what he would find at the pub, if anything. No matter what his condition, he owed it to his son to do this last thing. After that they would have to rely on other means of information; perhaps Maria found something out at the town hall.
The place was on Lichtenberger Strasse which made sense; it was just around the corner from Strausberger Platz, where Ulrich had been working on the building site. It was a street corner bar typical of Berlin. The Wild Boar was one of those places that looks small from the outside, but surprises you on the inside. The place was half full when Klaus entered. That was good for him because it meant there were enough people so that his presence went unnoticed. Groups of men were huddled around tables, either talking or playing cards. A swirl of thick smoke hung in the air. There were some individuals seated alone on stools at a long bar, seemingly content with their own company, or that of a Kindl Pilsner. The place was predominantly of dark, worn wood, difficult to damage or soil. To the right side of the bar, Klaus noticed a pair of large double doors.
He ordered a beer, and the barman, sporting a stained apron, didn’t give him a second look. He permitted himself another look around. After the protest, Klaus had imagined the place would be full. Perhaps they hadn’t made it back from the centre of town yet. Most of the men appeared older than he might have expected. He turned back to the bar, slightly disappointed; the place didn’t seem to be the centre of revolutionary fervour he was expecting.
He considered asking the barman about Ulrich, but knew that would only arouse suspicion. Klaus looked at his beer and realised this would be the first he’d tasted since he came back to Berlin. He was still finding it hard to grasp he was actually home. He knew deep down his physical symptoms were a reaction to the speed of everything, his body catching up with the events of the last few weeks. Now he was back he was happy to be together with Maria and Eva, yet this thing with Ulrich risked overshadowing everything.
Klaus was nearing the bottom of the glass before he realised there may have been more to the place than met the eye. He’d noticed at least two men walk straight into the bar and head directly for the double doors. He had just assumed that was the direction of the toilets, but after a while the men hadn’t reappeared. Klaus ordered a second beer, feeling there might be something interesting there after all. As he put the second glass to his lips he saw him. It was a man who had been teasing Bernhard, Ulrich’s friend, whom Eva had talked to on the site. He couldn’t be certain, but it was enough to get Klaus thinking.
Klaus’ eyes followed the man as he headed straight for the double doors without a sideward glance. He was through the doors, quickly followed by two other men who had entered the bar just behind him. Now Klaus was certain; behind those doors was another room where a meeting was taking place. He knew that was where he needed to be.
Klaus picked up his beer and headed for the end of the bar adjacent to the doors.
He stopped at the end of the bar and turned, waiting until the barman was occupied. A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him nobody else was looking, and he slipped through the doors, closing them quietly behind him.
He found himself in a hallway, dank and musty. Instantly, he could hear a much rowdier gathering. There were some steps and Klaus followed the racket. Perhaps he should have been wary. After all, this meeting was taking place in private for a reason, but the need to find out about Ulrich pushed him on.
It was easier to see on the corridor at the top of the steps; light was spilling from the half-open door at the end. There were people crammed in the doorway area, and judging by the noise, there must have been a good-sized crowd in the room. He reached the doorway unnoticed, not due to any stealth, but mainly because the men’s eyes were intently focused on somebody speaking in the room.
By the door, Klaus heard the speaker’s words.
‘We have them on the run now.’ This was greeted with raucous cheers. ‘You heard what they said today. They’d rescind the new targets. But we won’t give up there…’
Klaus stepped into the crowded room and was met by a sea of backs. Men had caps or beer glasses in their hands and were in good spirits. Klaus managed to peer over the shoulders to see a man standing on a table in the centre of the room, but his view was immediately obscured by people moving in front of him.
‘No, we must push for more. Free elections…’ The idea seemed popular among the crowd.
Klaus mused on the wisdom of what the man was saying. It was unrealistic. It wasn’t an opinion Klaus would care to share with those around him. The men in the room were convinced, converted, resolute, he’d go so far as to say fanatical. Maybe it was the beer taking effect.
There was something nagging Klaus about the man speaking. His voice was vaguely familiar. It was a Berlin accent, but it wasn’t only that. He had his back to Klaus, circling the faces of those men opposite. Klaus watched them, transfixed on him. They were young, impressionable, like Ulrich. Somehow Klaus knew he was in the right place. These men were angry, sharing the same passion Ulrich had. This kind of dissent was not welcomed, not encouraged in a communist country. In Russia, much less than this had meant death, or at the very best, years in a Gulag.
The man was turning to face Klaus slowly. He could see his shank of blond hair. The speaker was in his forties, a little younger than Klaus, but he looked much younger. His body hadn’t suffered in the camps, not the way he stood proud and upright.
He was nearly fully facing Klaus now. As he did, it wasn’t only the voice that he recognised. He was focusing on his face as it came into full view, more specifically, his right cheek. The scar was still the same when he was roused. Red, angry, raw. It was just like the day when he’d fought with Marz over the Tokarev.
Klaus couldn’t believe he was staring at the face of Ernst Wiebke.
***
Klaus felt himself blink in disbelief.
This was the man whose body they’d searched for that day in the carnage of the Stalingrad Tractor Factory compound, the day the advance had turned into a bloodbath. How could he be back here looking so well, so full of life? Klaus’ mind was sifting through the possibilities, when it stopped dead. Standing next to the table was another face from his time in Russia. He was half expecting to see Oskar Marz. After all, he was the one who’d betrayed them and bought his way back home with their conviction. But it wasn’t him. It was the face of the friendly Jesuit priest from their Lubjanka cell, Alfons.
Klaus dropped his glass. He’d forgotten he’d carried it up the stairs because he’d not drunk from it since he’d been in the room. The men around Klaus avoided the broken glass on the floor but instantly returned their attention to Wiebke’s haranguing. It was then he felt the hand on his shoulder. Klaus turned to see two large men behind him, and between their broad shoulders, Klaus could just see the smaller barman nod. Klaus was pulled bodily from the room, and the door closed behind him.
They dragged him down the corridor, now darkened by the lack of light from the room. Klaus struggled and protested, his heels bouncing on the uneven wooden boards. Another door was opened which led to a staircase, a different one to the one he’d come up minutes before. He was in time to pick out wh
at looked like an outside door at the bottom before he was launched downwards head first. No matter how he tried to protect himself he felt this was going to end badly. He rolled himself into a ball, as they had in the trenches. Unfortunately, his foot caught the wooden handrail and spun him round. His shoulder struck the wall, rotating him so he was now falling backwards. His back hit the door and that was the last thing he remembered. Whatever happened from that moment on, he wasn’t in control.
CHAPTER 30
16 JUNE 1953, EAST BERLIN
Ulrich had no idea how long it had been when the cell door opened, heralding a shaft of tepid yellow light.
‘Up!’
He was manhandled to his feet.
‘Come with me, Prisoner 32!’
His nostrils had just about got used to the vile smell. The guards on either side of him marched along the dank corridor with concrete walls. They turned into another long corridor. A light flashed from green to red.
‘Stop! Prisoner 32!’ He was pushed into a recess in the wall. ‘Look at the wall!’ He waited like this as he heard somebody else shuffling past them.
‘Let’s go, Prisoner 32!’ He noticed the light was green again. They reached some stairs, two flights up, then another long corridor. They stopped in front of a brown door, a buzzer sounded and he was pushed into a small room. The room was dark apart from a spotlight in the corner. He was forced down onto a stool which was in the very corner. He was low down, so much so that his chin was just above the height of the table.
‘Hands under your thighs, Prisoner 32!’
He was nudged roughly when he didn’t respond.
‘Hands under your thighs!’
Ulrich obliged. He figured he was about to find out why he was here. He knew it could be any number of people who had denounced him. He was doing his best to keep his wits about him, trying to stay focused and positive. Sitting in his cell, he was still reeling from the last few days; his argument with Ursula, the protests, meeting Heissner and Markus and all their revelations, and finally the return of his father. All the warnings he’d received from Ursula had been right.
Ulrich tensed as the door opened behind him. A man in civilian clothes strode around the table and sat down opposite him. Ulrich took him in whilst wanting to shield his eyes from the light: the man wasn’t much older than him, dark hair, overworked shirt, maybe an officer. He dropped a file on the desk and opened it with his thick fingers.
‘Ulrich Schultz,’ the man said.
The file appeared worryingly thick, comprehensive. Ulrich could see a completed form and the photograph which had been taken when he arrived.
‘My name is Weber. You know why you’re here?’ He raised his thick black eyebrows.
Ulrich shook his head.
‘That surprises me, Schultz. A number of other prisoners have named you already.’
Ulrich looked up from his disadvantageous position and fidgeted on his stool. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘The State would disagree; organising a protest to bring down a government. That’s subversion, Schultz.’
Ulrich shook his head. ‘This is about receiving a fair wage, that’s all.’
The man tutted and shook his head patronisingly. ‘People are on the streets as we speak.’
Ulrich felt a small surge of elation; the protest had started.
‘Nobody is talking about the norms any more. They want rid of the government, Schultz, and you,’ he poked a fat finger in his direction, ‘are one of the ringleaders.’
Ulrich scoffed.
‘We have evidence to prove it. Your guilt is all over these files.’ He prodded the paper in front of him.
‘Rubbish,’ Ulrich said, not feeling so confident.
Weber slammed the desk with his fist. ‘The prisoner talks too much. You’re looking at a firing squad, Schultz. There is no doubt.’
Ulrich’s mouth was dry now. He was struggling to stay calm, trying to sift the truth from the lies.
‘Now, you could save your neck by identifying others involved. Do that, and admit your guilt, and you’ll probably survive. Granted, it will be a long sentence, but you’ll live.’ He flashed a sour smile.
Ulrich wanted to punch the man squarely on his flabby chin. He felt forced into a corner, literally and metaphorically, compelling him to admit guilt for something he hadn’t done, and then drop others in it. He knew now Bernhard had been right to stay well out of these things.
Weber closed the file. ‘I don’t expect you to decide now, Schultz…’
‘I have nothing to tell you,’ Ulrich blurted out.
Weber raised his eyebrows again. ‘Not yet, Schultz, but you will. They always do.’
Ulrich felt his hackles rising, snarling at Weber, wanting to get at him. There was no chance of that, however; the first blow struck him on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. Weber left the room.
***
The alleyway was dark and smelled foul.
The cold moisture of the cobbles on his face brought Klaus round. There was pain all over his body. He went through the mental checklist groaning with the effort. Opening his eyes, he remembered what had happened in those moments before his fall down the back steps of the Kneipe. He couldn’t see anything, but he did hear the scraping of feet on the wet surface.
Klaus tried to sit up, but instantly felt sick. No matter how bad he felt, he had to assess the danger around him. He managed to drag himself into a position so he could look around. It took time for his eyes to adjust. The alleyway was narrow, stacked with wooden crates and dustbins. He did see one of the heavies who’d hauled him out of the meeting slumped against the wall, rendered useless and covered in slops and old newspaper sheets. Klaus couldn’t remember putting up such a good fight.
It was then he saw him, over his shoulder at the other wall. His back was to Klaus, but he could see the man was rifling the pockets of his other assailant. This one had also been incapacitated. Klaus had received some help. He was in two minds to shout and say something, but decided against it. He figured it might just be a thief taking advantage of the situation, but then dismissed this theory as unlikely; no man would choose two victims of that size.
Klaus managed to drag himself up.
The man turned to face him. ‘Good. You’re back with us. I thought I might have to carry you to a taxi,’ he said.
Even if there was little light, Klaus was in no doubt about the voice.
‘You did this?’ Klaus said, pointing limply at the two men.
‘The last time I saw you, you saved my life. I thought one good turn deserved another.’
‘That seems a long time ago,’ Klaus said, rubbing his head. ‘It’s good to see you, Markus.’
***
Markus Schram found them a quiet bar back in the American sector.
He’d been careful not to say too much in the taxi, which wasn’t a problem, as Klaus was still in shock. He found it hard to believe that he hadn’t suffered more serious injuries.
Watching Markus at the bar, he didn’t appear a day older than when Klaus had left him next to the slag heap that night in Kolyma. He’d always looked young, the only thing to bely his age was a slight limp he’d picked up somewhere along the line.
‘Get that down you. It’ll help the pain,’ he said, pushing a stubby glass of clear liquid towards Klaus. He took it and knocked it back without question. It burned his throat and then started to warm his insides as it worked its way down. Markus then pushed a Pilsner in front of him.
‘So tell me, how did you find them?’ he said.
Klaus shook his head. It didn’t seem the obvious question to ask. Klaus wasn’t one for showing emotion, but he did wonder if there were other things to talk about first.
‘Who? You mean Wiebke, Alfons? I’ve been searching for my son, Ulrich. He was arrested recently, probably to do with the protests,’ Klaus said.
‘He was involved with Wiebke?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s likely.
He used to spend a lot of his time at the Wild Boar. Judging by what I’ve seen tonight, it’s difficult to imagine he would not have known Wiebke.’ Klaus stopped for a moment and thought over the implications of Wiebke and Alfons being in Berlin. ‘Wiebke deserted that day at the tractor factory?’
Markus shrugged like he’d had some time to get used the revelation. ‘It seems the obvious explanation. He must have offered his services to the Russians.’
‘And Alfons was a stool pigeon in Lubjanka?’
Markus nodded.
Klaus let out a low whistle. ‘Dobrovsky wanted us badly.’ Then he shook his head. ‘Never mind all that, what about you, Markus? What are you doing in Berlin, Markus? I mean, how the hell did you get back?’
He smiled, that cheeky smile that had all the Russian housewives eating from the palm of his hand. ‘I’ve been in Berlin a while, working for the government.’
‘Not for the East Germans?’ Klaus asked.
‘No, no, the West Germans. Anyway,’ he said, quickly changing the subject, ‘I picked up his trail about a month ago. I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since.’
Klaus shook his head. It was difficult to take in.
‘I can understand Wiebke coming back to Berlin, but why do this? Rousing young men to protest? And what’s Alfons doing with him? How do they fit together?’
‘I’ve not worked it all out yet,’ Markus said.
‘Is he behind all this – Dobrovsky I mean?’
‘Working with Wiebke? Maybe, but then as you rightly say, why would Wiebke want to whip up the protest?’
Klaus had little chance of understanding it all. In some ways it felt like a distraction from his main aim; getting to Ulrich. Perhaps Wiebke and Ulrich were linked in some way.
‘My head hurts with all this thinking.’ Klaus gripped his shoulder, smiling at him now. ‘Tell me what happened after you escaped.’
He laughed and Klaus joined in. It was how their reunion should have been had he not picked Klaus out of the gutter.