BERLIN

by Paul Grant

  The cell door closed again, so maybe they’d left him alone this time.

  ‘Ulrich.’

  Ulrich shook his head. Was he dreaming? Why were they using his name? With great effort, he lifted his face from the wooden boards.

  Standing beneath the perennial light was a small man in uniform. Ulrich guessed he was Russian. He pushed himself up against the wall, grunting with pain.

  ‘I am Colonel Dobrovsky.’

  ‘I’ve told Weber what I know.’ Ulrich was defensive, fearful of returning to the water buckets.

  The man laughed. He sat down, propping himself on the edge of the wooden bed frame, close to Ulrich.

  ‘I am sure you have told him everything, Ulrich. That would be very sensible.’

  Ulrich noticed his eyes and the disarming smile. This man was making him feel uncomfortable, using his name, appearing friendly. What was he doing in his cell?

  ‘What happened to Prisoner 32?’

  ‘For the regime. I have special access here.’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘The people here will deal with all that, Ulrich. I am only here to look at you, check you’re being well treated.’

  There it was again, the manic smile, which told Ulrich this man was enjoying his discomfort. He was angry.

  Ulrich scoffed. ‘Now you’ve reassured yourself, why don’t you close the door on the way out?’

  Dobrovsky took off his blue-banded hat, chuckling. ‘The same quips as your father.’ He turned, and this time his eyes bored right through Ulrich.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘That’s right. We go way back, Ulrich.’

  The fear had stirred his mind into action. He recalled his father saying he couldn’t settle in the Russian zone, and that he’d explain everything when he’d had some rest. He’d not been able to speak with him after that. Ulrich had been snatched off the street.

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  Dobrovsky tutted. ‘You are a prisoner here, Ulrich. The law will decide what to do with you.’

  He stood, covering his bald head with his cap.

  Dobrovsky turned at the door. ‘Only, I do have quite an influence on the law in these parts. And it makes me feel good to have a Schultz in custody.’

  He banged on the cell door. It was opened immediately.

  Ulrich closed his eyes. He had a horrible feeling he would never get out of this place again.

  CHAPTER 36

  17 JUNE 1953, EAST BERLIN

  This time, Maria let Klaus go into the Russian zone with her blessing. Their long, emotional dialogue had somewhat dissipated the anger of before. Listening to what Maria had been through humbled him, placing things in a resounding perspective. It allowed him to approach his task with a clear mind. He was still sore at Markus, but more for not telling him the story at the beginning, and allowing him to piece things together himself, rather than for his actual recruitment of Ulrich.

  As for Wiebke, Klaus viewed him as a traitor, a deserter for Stalingrad and a charlatan and manipulator for his actions in Berlin. There were many words for him. Despite that, he did wonder if his anger was enough to look into Wiebke’s eyes and take his life. During the war that was Klaus’ job, somehow legitimate. In Kolyma, it had been about survival, Markus or the guard, or perhaps even Klaus himself. The problem with killing was when one had time to think, when it wasn’t instinctive, when the rational part of one’s brain had the chance to consider one’s actions.

  It was, however, his one and only chance to free Ulrich. Now Maria was relying on him, it felt as if there was more pressure to deliver. And the more he thought what they would be doing to Ulrich, how close he might be to death already, he knew he had no choice. It was the life of Wiebke or the life of his son; there was no contest and maybe only conscience.

  The address Burzin had given him was naturally in East Berlin. It meant he had to navigate the mayhem on the streets he’d narrowly avoided only a few hours before. Klaus avoided the main sector crossing points. He knew the most serious incidents had been on Potsdamer Platz and close to the Brandenburger Tor. As Klaus was heading for Kastanienallee in the Prenzlauer Berg district, it didn’t take long for him to select the place to enter the Russian sector. He’d already been to Bernauer Strasse to see Ursula a couple of days ago. Now he was back there using the close proximity of the apartments to dodge the patrols and street blocks.

  Before he left the hotel, RIAS had been reporting multiple deaths among the protestors. Klaus had sensed the place had been a powder keg and it had well and truly exploded. However, once he was past the sector border, this part of Berlin was relatively quiet. Aside from the odd military vehicle heading for the centre of town, the area appeared largely untouched by the revolt. The apparent calm of the street wasn’t reflected in his disposition. Now he was back in the Russian zone, he felt like he was about to crawl out into the unknown of no man’s land. Klaus knew he was heading into danger.

  Kastanienallee was a long street with tall apartment blocks on each side. Klaus spent some time acquainting himself with the numbering system, and he deduced that Wiebke’s apartment was closer to the Mitte district. At one point, Klaus took a diversion off the street before heading back on to it; Burzin had warned him about the possibility of being followed and to take necessary precautions. With all the chaos of the protest, he thought that unlikely, but Burzin had more experience in these matters. He was only really interested in getting to Wiebke’s place and getting the job done. He had to be in place for the rendezvous to pick Ulrich up later that evening. Klaus swallowed hard, knowing there was a lot that could happen between now and then.

  He located the apartment. Aside from the odd bullet mark on the façade, it was in pretty good condition for Berlin. On either side of the entrance were nondescript shops. He remained under cover on the opposite side of the road about twenty metres down from the entrance. When he thought about it, he felt faintly ridiculous. Not only did he know Burzin’s men would be watching, he also had no real plan and no weapon with which to kill Wiebke. Klaus was making it up as he went along. He knew he would have to rely heavily on the survival instincts that had been honed in Stalingrad, Vorkuta and Kolyma. It didn’t prevent Klaus from feeling sick to the stomach. It was time to move.

  He made a first pass of the doorway to the apartment. The large doors were battered by the weather and the events of the past. There was a smaller internal door, set in the frame of the larger door. It was slightly ajar. Klaus saw his chance. He slid through the opening, pushing the door closed behind him.

  One part of the operation he did have covered was entry to the apartment; Burzin had provided a skeleton key. Now he was in position, on the edge again, and the enormity of what he had to do was gnawing at him like the rats of Stalingrad. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; those instincts had served him well in times of danger in the past.

  Wiebke’s apartment was on the left side on the first-floor landing. Even if the stairs were cold and draughty, it was easy to recognise the place was a step up on Maria’s or Ursula’s. Clearly those in the pay of the Russians were managing just fine in amongst all the shortages. There was no hesitation. The showdown with Heissner or Wiebke, whatever he called himself, was going to happen sooner or later.

  He banged on the door, not knowing what he would do if Wiebke, or anybody else, answered. As it happened, there was nothing, even after the second attempt. Klaus felt a certain amount of relief. Burzin’s key worked after a little manipulation. He closed the door, locking it behind him.

  Klaus held his breath, the blood pulsing in his ears. The room was large and surprisingly well furnished. He hadn’t been in an apartment this grand before. The furniture, if appearing sparse in the wide spaces, looked expensive. There was an empty vodka bottle on the antique table, giving the impression that somebody had been celebrating. A huge Egyptian rug covered the majority of the wooden floorboards. In one corner, there was a large oak dining table. Mos
t of the walls were covered in pictures of the local area and noticeably devoid of family photographs. His heart rate started to dip slightly as he realised Wiebke wasn’t at home.

  To his left was an open-plan kitchen. Next to the kitchen was a single door which he assumed housed the bedroom area. He surveyed the kitchen. There was bread, various jams and butter on the sideboard. Klaus opened a cupboard to see coffee and tea, cakes, things no ordinary Berliner had seen for years. He opened the drawer, noticing the well-polished, high-quality cutlery. Instinctively he pocketed a sharp-bladed kitchen knife around three inches in length, perfect for concealment.

  He turned back to the living room, noticing a well-stacked bowl of fruit on the dining table. On the back wall were the first signs of political influence; portraits of Lenin and Stalin stood proudly above the fireplace. Beside the fire was a well-stocked drinks trolley. Wiebke aka Heissner had certainly been living in some style and comfort, in contrast to the men he’d been urging to protest.

  With little else of interest, Klaus diverted his attention to the door off the living area. The sleeping area was only slightly smaller. To one side, below the window, was a large bathtub, with claw-like cast-iron feet. On the back wall was a bed big enough for three people. He left the door slightly ajar and made for the wardrobe on the left side of the bed. Inside there was a distinct division of clothes: older, worn workers’ clothes on the right and more stylish, expensive shirts and suits on the left. He shook his head in disbelief. There were at least five pairs of leather shoes, all meticulously polished. These contrasted with a pair of well-worn workers’ boots, standing alone on an old copy of Neues Deutschland. It made him recall Wiebke’s habit of discipline and cleanliness in their Stalingrad bunker. It seemed it hadn’t deserted him. A quick search through the side shelves of neatly piled socks and folded underwear gleaned nothing of interest.

  Klaus knew there must be something incriminating in the place and was getting slightly worried that Burzin may have given him the wrong address. Beside the bed, he got down on his hands and knees, but there was nothing underneath. He started to work his way methodically round the edge of the mattress. Klaus had no idea what he was looking for. Perhaps it was only the justification for what he had to do.

  Close to the headboard on the window side of the bed, he found a cloth pouch. Opening it he pulled out two passports, one Russian, one German; both carried Wiebke’s picture, the scar unmistakable. The German passport carried the name Heissner. At least Klaus was in the right place. The pouch also contained a vast amount of cash: eastern marks, western marks and some American dollars. It was clear that Wiebke was able to call on considerable resources.

  Klaus was about to give up on the search to sit and wait for Wiebke’s arrival. As he went to get up, he saw a brown-coloured string leading to the back of the headboard. He tugged on it and noticed some resistance. With great difficulty, he forced his hand between the headboard and mattress and felt around. His hand eventually landed on a bag strapped to the back of the headboard. He yanked the package out, immediately feeling its weight.

  With the bag now on the bed, he untied the string and pulled out a handgun. It was a Tokarev. Klaus looked at it in utter amazement, turning it over in his hands. For a moment, he was miles away. He couldn’t help thinking he was looking at the very gun that Marz and Wiebke had squabbled over all those years ago. He was taken right back to that time, the last days of the summer of 1942 as they were knocking on the gates of Stalingrad.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Klaus dropped the gun on the bed in shock.

  Wiebke was standing by the bedroom door with his shoes in his hand. He held up a small piece of paper in the other.

  ‘I always put it on the door seal so I know if somebody has been in,’ he said.

  His manner was surprisingly calm, given that he’d just caught somebody in his apartment. Klaus had been so wrapped up in his memories, he’d taken his eye off the ball. Now he was on the back foot. He glanced down at the gun.

  ‘Don’t bother trying,’ Wiebke said. ‘I have one in here.’ He patted his side, presumably a hidden holster. ‘Now, who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?’ He threw down his shoes with indifference. The man was arrogant, dismissive, so much so that Klaus couldn’t believe he’d not even recognised him. Could his appearance have changed so much? Whatever the case, Wiebke didn’t seem that interested.

  Klaus got off his knees, leaving the gun where it was. He studied Wiebke, smartly dressed. He guessed that he hadn’t been anywhere near today’s protests that he’d so carefully conspired to cause. Klaus thought about the goods in the apartment, the place in which he’d been living; whilst good men like Ulrich were trying to eke out a living wage to feed their families, he’d been here in the comparative lap of luxury, cynically subverting events for his own ends and the benefit of people like Dobrovsky. It was disgusting. Klaus was easily gaining the anger he needed.

  ‘You don’t recognise an old comrade when you see one?’ Klaus said eventually.

  Wiebke looked at him, then tilted his head on one side. ‘Forgive me, I can’t place the face.’

  ‘Try the tractor factory at Stalingrad.’ Klaus spat the words out.

  His confident manner seemed to slip for a split second, then it was back with a vengeance. ‘Klaus Schultz. Well, well. You’ve surpassed yourself in making it back to Berlin.’

  ‘You seem to have changed sides since I last saw you.’

  He shrugged. ‘I never really changed my allegiance. I was always a Communist.’

  ‘Nonetheless, a German. You deserted us.’ The memory of Meissner’s delirious nightmare was gnawing at him. His mind was clicking into place like an Enigma machine. ‘You argued with Meissner, didn’t you? You told him you were going to desert and he tried to stop you.’

  Wiebke sighed. ‘Let’s take a drink, Klaus. There are many things you don’t know,’ he said, like he didn’t really have the time or the inclination to explain.

  He walked back into the living area. Klaus couldn’t believe he’d left him there without covering him. He looked down at the gun again.

  ‘Leave the gun where it is, and come and have a drink,’ he shouted now. Klaus heard the glasses clinking. This seemed like utter madness. He’d come to kill the man, not drink with him. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help needing to hear what he had to say.

  Against his better judgement, he left the Tokarev and went through to the other room. Wiebke was moving towards him with two glasses of clear liquid, probably vodka. He offered him a glass. Klaus took it, in shock more than anything.

  ‘Yes, in answer to your question, we argued a couple of days before that offensive. I told Otto I was going to desert and urged him to come with me. We were Communists for God’s sake, not Nazis.’ Suddenly he threw back the contents of the glass. Klaus suspected his decision had played on his mind more than he was willing to admit.

  ‘You left the men that had fought with you, by your side, saved your life on occasions. We weren’t Nazis either, but we didn’t leave our comrades to die.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Klaus, we were finished and you knew it. It was only a matter of time. You all ended up where I did, only a few weeks later.’

  ‘We didn’t give up and run out on our comrades.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re a naïve fool, Schultz. The world has changed. It’s left you behind.’

  ‘I might be naïve, but I don’t do the dirty deeds of those in power. I don’t pull young, desperate men into somebody else’s fight.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘My son, Ulrich. You know him from the Wild Boar.’

  He smiled knowingly. Klaus felt his blood starting to boil. There were two metres between them. Wiebke was sitting down on a chair, one leg crossed leisurely over the other like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘So that’s why you’re here. Your son?’ He shook his head, ‘Like I said, a naïve fool.’

 
Wiebke seemed so very sure of himself. It was unnerving Klaus. He felt like Wiebke was about to reveal something which would explain everything. He’d not even attempted to cover him with his gun. It was like Klaus couldn’t reach him, as if he had protection close at hand.

  ‘What makes you people tick?’ Klaus said. ‘What are you getting from this? Destroying people’s lives, having them arrested. For what? What do you gain?’

  He laughed just like Burzin. It was that laugh that said he knew more than Klaus and would always be two or three steps ahead. He was probably right.

  ‘Why are you here, Schultz? Your son will be dead by now. The Stasi don’t play games with dissenters. It’s like your time at the Lubjanka…’

  ‘How can you know about that?’

  ‘This is what I mean.’ He put down his glass on the table. ‘I work for them, Schultz. I work for the man who made sure you spent your time in the camps. You really have no idea what is going on here.’

  Klaus took a deep breath, feeling for the knife at his side.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Wiebke. How could you live with yourself knowing that Schram, Koegel, your comrades were holed up in that place?’

  He started to laugh. It continued until it became almost hysterical. He kept on trying to say things, but his laughter would not allow him to. He was so out of control that Klaus wondered if that was his chance.

  He could have taken him, probably very easily, but something stopped him. His laughter was mocking, humiliating, taunting. It went on, and Klaus had to stand and suffer it. Klaus didn’t kill him then because he had to know why. What caused him so much amusement?

  Whilst he waited for his hysteria to subside, Klaus downed his vodka. Fortification was required for what was to come.

  Wiebke wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You know, Schultz, you forgot to mention one name just then.’