Postmark Berlin

by Anne Emery

  Saint Hedwig’s was modeled on the Pantheon in Rome, and after the Mass, Brennan had an opportunity to read the history of its martyred priest, Father Bernhard Lichtenberg. After Kristallnacht, the pogrom unleashed against Jewish synagogues and businesses in 1938, Lichtenberg began praying regularly for the Jews of Germany. He protested directly to Herman Göring about the concentration camps and took various Nazi officials to task over the persecution of the Jews and the killing of the sick and the mentally ill. Eventually, he was arrested by the Nazis and sent to the concentration camp at Dachau. He died on the way there. Brennan was on his knees in prayer and contemplation when Terry arrived with his carry-on bag in tow. Brennan handed him a brochure about the church and about Father Lichtenberg and whispered, “There is history in every paving stone in this country.”

  “I never doubted it. And I suspect the fella Russ has lined up for us has had some tense moments during that history. We’re meeting him at one thirty tomorrow at a café on the river.”

  “Good plan. We’ll see a bit of the city today.” It was grey and cool but the rain had stopped, not a bad day for walking about. “You’re not a regular visitor to Berlin, as far as I know.”

  “No, my German flights are generally to Frankfurt and Munich.”

  They left the cathedral and walked to Alexanderplatz so Terry could drop off his suitcase at their hotel. On the way, Brennan pointed to the most obvious landmark, the Berlin Television Tower. Brennan had heard it described as the tallest structure in all of Germany, but he had heard something else about it as well. “Keep an eye on the silver globe at the top of the tower. It has a nickname or two. Ulbricht Cathedral, named after the former party leader and head of state Walter Ulbricht. Or something that would resonate more with the likes of us, the Pope’s Revenge. When the sun shines on it a certain way, the reflection takes the shape of a cross.”

  “That must have gone down well with the nonbelievers running things here.”

  “They wrote it off as a plus sign for their version of hard-arsed socialism. But we know different.”

  They stopped in at the hotel and then headed out for a stroll about the city. They noticed that every time they stopped at an intersection, nobody but nobody — young, old, male, female — crossed against a red light even if there was no traffic in sight. So, the Burkes decided to blend in with the custom and mores of the city and stood with unaccustomed patience until the light turned and gave them permission to cross.

  Berlin was the loophole through which people had escaped from the East German state, because Berlin was within and surrounded by the East German territory. Brennan had seen varying figures for the number of people who had in the early years fled the people’s republic for the West, figures ranging from two million to over three million. Something had to be done to close that loophole. Hence die Berliner Mauer, the Berlin Wall, built in 1961. West Berlin was separated from East Berlin and was blocked off entirely from the rest of East Germany by a wall of concrete blocks, wire mesh fencing, and anti-vehicle trenches, with machine gun posts and searchlights. There were more than three hundred watchtowers. The wall was patrolled by East German border guards day and night. Several thousand people managed to escape, but several thousand others were captured. Well over a hundred were either shot to death, or died in other ways, while trying to escape. But the wall came down in 1989, and the Berlin through which Brennan and Terry strolled was one undivided city, but a city of many styles.

  “Intimidation architecture at its height,” Brennan observed as they came upon the edifice that had been home to Hermann Göring’s Air Ministry during the days of the Nazi regime. The structure epitomized the fascist style, massive and symmetrical with sharp square edges and row upon row of windows. Like other buildings constructed during the Third Reich, it was designed to impress and intimidate the masses. It was so enormous that Göring could have landed his airplanes on it. Little wonder it was a comfortable fit for the Soviet administration after the war and subsequently for the East German regime. There were a great many square modern buildings but also examples of the older styles, like the domed and elaborately decorated Berlin Cathedral and the Greek-classical Brandenburg gate. Brennan and Terry also saw the ruins of the imperial church of Kaiser Wilhelm II, with its bomb-damaged tower still standing as a reminder of the destruction of war.

  Given the impetus for the trip to Berlin, Brennan intended to take a look at the office building Fried Habler had told him about, which was located close to their hotel. So, when he and Terry made their way back to Alexanderplatz, they walked the short distance to Karl Liebknecht Strasse and stood before the large modern rectangle of a building that was home to the Stasi Records Agency.

  “Must be quite the operation, in a big building like this.”

  “I would think so, given that the state was spying on millions of its citizens. Habler said the original records are still kept in archives in the old Stasi headquarters, which of course is the building shown on the postcard sent to Meika. We’ll make a point of going to see that before we leave town.”

  “So, Bren, was that postcard sent to Meika to say, ‘They have a file on you’?”

  “Or was it ‘We have a file on you’?”

  “Someone from the old Stasi days tormenting her, you mean.”

  “Could be. We just don’t know.”

  “If she saw the postcard as a threat of some kind, why would she hop on a plane and fly over here? Or maybe it was from an old friend, and the image was meant to say, ‘Look what we went through together. But that’s over and done now.’ Though, if that was the case, why would she lie about coming here to Berlin? Where was it she claimed she went?”

  “Milan and Vienna.”

  “And she didn’t show up for the opera in Vienna. And you think she came here.”

  “I imagine so, in reaction to whatever message she read into that card.”

  They stood looking at the building, and then Terry moved a little closer to his brother. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Brennan, don’t turn your head. Stand the way you are now. But I was looking in the glass here and I saw the reflection of a man I think I spotted earlier near the hotel. Didn’t think anything of it at the time, but . . .”

  “You’re not telling me we’re being followed.”

  “Probably not. Who over here would know about us?”

  “Well, your pal Russ, for one.”

  Terry laughed. “It’s not Russ.”

  “And the fellow he has us meeting at the café?”

  “Jäger. He’d have no reason to follow us; he’ll be seeing us tomorrow. It may just be my old military training. Seeing enemies all around me!”

  “Maybe so.”

  “But take a casual look in the window, see if there’s a man wearing a short grey coat and a dark wool cap, black-framed eyeglasses. And if you see him walking, he has a bit of a lurch to the right side.”

  Brennan turned nonchalantly towards the glass and looked in the reflection. “I don’t see anybody like that.”

  “No? He’s gone. All right, let’s get on with our sightseeing.”

  They walked all over the city, stopping for a stein of Pils or Kölsch from time to time. They had supper at a lively biergarten, suitably closed in for the season, where Brennan had a selection of Meeresfrüchte, seafood, and Terry had the Hackefleisch, ground meat. They hit the sack early to make up for all the travelling; they wanted to be sharp for the next day’s assignation.

  The next morning, Thursday, Brennan took the opportunity to attend another Mass in German, so he donned his clerical collar and headed out. After that, he and Terry took in a couple of museums offering a painfully honest take on German history, and then it was time to meet their contact, one Jäger, after what was traditionally the main meal of the day, Mittagessen. Lunch. Terry followed the directions he had been given to a café on the banks of the river Spree, and they seated thems
elves by the window. The sun was shining off the river, and the view was lovely. Terry said, “This guy Russ has arranged for us to meet, he’s German but he was ‘in the thick of things’ in the American sector in West Berlin during much of the Cold War. Sounded to me as if he was a spook of some kind working for the U.S., though Russ didn’t spell it out.”

  “Well, let’s hope he can give us some idea where to start. In the meantime, let’s eat.”

  Terry ordered schnitzel with a serving of German potato salad to start things off. Brennan started with Bavarian potato soup with bacon and pretzel croutons in it. He looked across at his brother and laughed. “You can take the lads out of Ireland, but you can’t take Ireland out of the lads.”

  “Sure, what would we do without our spuds? Sheila gave me hell on a trip to Italy one time. I ordered potato pizza. ‘You’re in Italy, for the love of God, Terry. Can’t you order something besides potatoes?’ Affecting the attitude of a sophisticate, I told her I wanted to see how they did them in Italy. Did them to perfection, needless to say.”

  When Brennan’s main course arrived, there was another story. The maulthaschen was a serving of dumplings stuffed with sausage, bread, onions, and herbs. Putting the plate down and eyeing Brennan’s collar, the waitress said, “I don’t know if I should tell you this, Father, but this was always a favourite during Lent; people could keep eating meat, because it was hidden in the pasta dough!” Brennan laughed and said he was doing the same thing, given that they were in the midst of Lent now. He savoured his first bite and called across to her that it was köstlich, which didn’t mean costly but delicious. As was the Bavarian beer that accompanied the meal.

  Brennan noticed a distinguished-looking grey-haired man in a suit and tie coming in the door and looking around. Brennan stood, and the man noted his clerical attire and approached the table. “I am Jäger.” Terry rose then, and they all shook hands.

  “What can we get for you, Herr Jäger?”

  “I have had lunch with my wife, but I would certainly enjoy a beer — a Helles — and a Donauwelle.”

  “Please order whatever you like,” Terry said. “We really appreciate your meeting us here.”

  “Here in the former Deutsche Demokratische Republik.”

  They engaged in small talk about the city until the waitress brought Jäger his beer and Donauwelle. It had layers of cake, white and chocolate, with cherries stuffed in it and chocolate glaze over the top. Brennan made a mental note to have a taste of this before he left the city. But business first. After taking a bite of his dessert and a sip of beer, Jäger got to the purpose of the encounter.

  “The facts as they have been given to me are these: a woman named Meika Keller, originally called Edelgard Vogt-Becker, got out of this country in 1974, lately lived in Canada, received a postcard from this city depicting the headquarters of the Stasi. Shortly after receiving this postcard, she embarked on an unscheduled trip to Europe. She stated that she would be attending the opera in Vienna, but she did not attend. She died in suspicious circumstances shortly after her return to Canada. There is a question whether her death was a suicide or a homicide.”

  “That sums it up, yes,” Brennan agreed.

  “There are two men who would have some knowledge for you. Knowledge at the ground level, you might say. The man I recommend is Gerhardt Fischer. How many days are you in Berlin?”

  “Only two more days after this.”

  “That is a pity. This contact, who would be most useful, is away in Den Haag right now on business. I doubt Fischer will return before your departure. That leaves us only Willy Horst Lehmann. I almost hesitate to recommend him to you. He is a low sort of person. But he has the advantage of being available. He is a humble waiter or, more accurately I suppose, a bartender. But he poses as a man of mystery, trying to create an air of intrigue about himself. It is true that he does have a past. He has not always been pouring whisky down the throats of the alcoholics six nights a week.”

  “How would we get close to him and induce him to talk to us? Get him out from behind the bar, I mean.”

  “Are you Scottish?”

  “Em, no.”

  “I thought from your voice, perhaps . . .” He directed his question to Brennan.

  “No,” Brennan replied, “but why are you asking?”

  Jäger laughed and said, “Willy is fascinated with Scotland, the bagpipes, all the music, and the bonnie lassies with red hair, and he has always nurtured an ambition to travel there. We used to make jokes that he would have served Erich Mielke on a platter with an apple in his mouth if the Scots had wanted him.”

  “Mielke? Head of the Stasi?”

  “For more than thirty terrifying years. Famed for many things. With regard to those who attempted to flee the republic, he instructed his men in this way, ‘When you shoot, you must shoot so that the guy you hit doesn’t get away but stays here with us.’ And so indeed many stayed, dead or alive. Even now, here in Berlin, the reference to certain streets will have people twitching. Magdalenenstrasse, Normannenstrasse, Ruschestrasse — that is where the enormous complex is located, the Stasi headquarters and associated buildings. Something like a million square feet of office space! Perhaps you have not seen it?”

  “Not yet, but we intend to go and have a look.”

  “As for Willy Lehmann, you will find him at a very different place of employment, a bar called the Geggie. The street is Schiffbauerdamm. There is usually a band that plays Irish and Scottish music. But I warn you: Willy drinks a good part of the profits there, at least on the nights when the owner of the place is not present, and Willy cannot hold his liquor. His capacity is two glasses of beer. That is all. After that, he is of no good to anyone.”

  Brennan could see the ghost of a smile on his brother’s face as Terry contemplated the advantage of this weakness in their target.

  “How will we recognize him?”

  Another laugh from Jäger. “He will be the only large, blond-haired German man behind the bar wearing a tam-o’-shanter on his head!”

  They were all laughing then.

  “You said he’s a bit of a low character. And a drinker.” Brennan didn’t look at Terry when he said it. “Would a person like that have been given information, trusted with it? In other words, would he know anything?”

  “He has some knowledge. A totalitarian state needs people on the ground. It is estimated that, at the time the regime collapsed, there were nearly a hundred ninety thousand people working not as employees of the secret police but as unofficial informers. They were called the IMs, Inoffizieller Mitarbeiters. These were civilians, regular people. Over all the years of the East German state, there may have been over half a million snitches in that category. And there was another whole world of informers, even less official than the unofficials! People in factories, universities, political organizations, cultural institutions giving information on their co-workers. Superintendents in apartment buildings keeping records of who came in to see whom. So, everywhere, you had people informing on their close friends, family members, lovers, neighbours. Schoolchildren informing on classmates. These ordinary citizens would report on anyone who said anything that offended the party line, or who spoke of escaping to the West, and those people were imprisoned or had their lives or careers destroyed. Do not forget the Volkspolizei as well, the national police force. Anyone walking the streets of eastern Germany today wonders about every person he meets. Was he, was she, one of the spies?”

  “And this Willy was one of them.”

  “He was one of those assigned to keep an eye on East German citizens who, for whatever reason, were in West Berlin. He was at this work in the 1970s. Find a way to make him speak to you. You might tell him, ‘Ve haff vays of making you talk . . .’” Jäger smiled and said, “I have seen those movies, too!” Brennan and Terry laughed along with him. Then Jäger rose, thanked them for their hospitality, wished
them luck, and said, “See what Lehmann has to say.”

  Chapter XXI

  Piet

  On Thursday, March 14, Detective-Sergeants Van den Brink and Young drove the roughly two hundred sixty kilometres from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Moncton, New Brunswick. They pulled up at the Moncton Flight Centre on the outskirts of the city, in Dieppe. Ailsa’s friend Shauna had arranged for a Moncton police officer, who was a neighbour of Shauna and her husband, to meet them outside the club. Constable Ray Comeau introduced himself, and they had a quick look at the cluster of light aircraft gleaming in the sun.

  “Makes you want to take to the skies, eh?” said a man behind them. They turned, and Albert Glendenning introduced himself as the man who had the day-to-day running of the centre. He invited them inside and offered them seats in a large meeting room.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Albert,” Ailsa said. “As Ray explained to you, we are interested in an incident that occurred here in 1985. Your flights were grounded for a day, as we understand it.”

  “Right.”

  “What happened?”

  “First of all, let me make it clear that there was nothing wrong with any of our planes. Or with our facilities or any of our personnel. We run a tight ship here, if I may mix my metaphors a bit. Safety is our priority. What happened was we had a little reception for some of the people who’d attended the big do in Moncton with the Chief of the Defence Staff. Some of those guys came out here, and we had snacks and soft drinks, tea, and coffee for them. And a few of the people, those with accreditation to fly, were going to take up a Cessna or a Piper Malibu and have a short little flight over the city. Out to the beach, that sort of thing. These were of course civilian airplanes. This isn’t an Air Force base. Not anymore.”