Winter Work, page 29
Moritz sighed and shook his head. For a fraught moment he seemed ready to stop the van. He looked straight ahead as they drove onward another mile or so, hands clamped tightly to the wheel. Then his hands relaxed, and he turned to Emil again.
“It’s not much further to the guardhouse. Maybe you’d better get ready.”
Emil nodded and clambered into the back, where the tarp was already spread on the cold metal floor next to a massive toolbox and a pile of clamps, a stepladder, and other items. When Emil threw back the tarp, he saw the circular saw that he had asked Moritz to bring, and its shiny new blade. He lay down as the van bumped through a pothole, his hips already uncomfortable against the hardness of the floor.
“Thank you again, Moritz.”
“Please. The less said, the better.”
Emil lay down and threw the tarp across his body. It was dark and musty underneath, smelling of paint and machine oil.
A few minutes later they came to a stop. He heard Moritz rolling down his window, and, even beneath the tarp, felt the coolness of the outside air as it spilled into the van. Emil briefly heard a radio playing American music as someone opened and shut the door of the guardhouse. There were footsteps across gravel, followed by the loud voice of a sentry, raspy and collegial.
“Back for more punishment, comrade?”
“Checking the plumbing at some of the houses down at the far end.” Emil heard a shuffle of papers, as if Moritz was consulting a job order. “Nörden’s house, then Naumann’s, then Mielke’s.”
“I’ll get you the keys.”
There was a pause as the sentry went back into the guardhouse, then a jangling noise as he returned and handed Moritz the sets of keys for each of the three houses.
“Bring me back a bottle of schnapps, if you think of it. I think Naumann has a particularly nice brand.”
The two men laughed. Emil heard the squeal and creak of heavy metal joints as the iron security gate rolled open.
Moritz shut his window, they eased forward, and, after a couple of twists and turns that took only a few minutes, the van stopped and the engine shut off. Moritz climbed out and slammed the door behind him without uttering a word. Not long afterward, Emil heard the hiss of air being released from the right rear tire. That side of the van sagged beneath him.
Then, silence. It was already dark beneath the tarp, but in another hour or so it would be dark outside. He had set the alarm on his cheap watch for 3 a.m., so he rolled onto his back and tried to relax. Nearly ten more hours.
Emil began feeling a little sorry for himself, until it hit him that this was Bettina’s life, each and every day, and with every waking moment. Only in her dreams, or when they bathed her, or wheeled her outdoors for a walk, or perhaps also when he read to her, did she ever escape this sense of confinement. It was like living in a room-sized tomb, with your body for a coffin.
The best escape from these thoughts would be to sleep. But it was cold, the floor was hard, and his bones were already aching. Emil vowed that after tonight, he would read more to Bettina. He would take her for more walks, even though she had to be strapped into the chair, which looked horrible, and the paths were bumpy. She would shiver in the winter cold, but now he realized that for her even that level of discomfort was at least a respite from this sort of existence. So, yes, after tonight he would do more. Provided, of course, that there was an after.
Emil had brought a water bottle, but he decided not to drink any, not yet, because then he’d need to pee. He went still and shut his eyes, but it was hours before he was able to sleep.
45
Shortly after sunset, at a little before 6 p.m., Claire sat on the end of the bed in her hotel room, watching an American movie dubbed into German while she waited impatiently for Ron Kent, who was in turn awaiting delivery at Berlin base of the two West German passports requested by Emil Grimm.
She was eager to get under way, figuring that the later they crossed over, the more likely they were to attract unwanted attention, especially if the Russians were still keeping an eye on some of the old checkpoints, as Ward seemed to believe.
There was a small overnight bag at her feet. Their plan was to check in to an inn near Bernau that they had already identified as a safe spot for a brief wait, partly because it had a rear exit onto an alley. They would park in an underground garage several blocks away, eat dinner at a nearby restaurant, return to their room, and then wait until a few hours after midnight, when they would slink quietly out the back and walk to the garage before driving off into the night, via back roads, to the dirt lane in the woods where Grimm had said they should wait for him. The only irritating wrinkle in their plans was that Kent would maintain control over the passports. He alone would decide if Grimm’s contribution merited payment. That had been the decree from Ward, who obviously felt Claire had gone soft on the old East German. She was right, but it rankled all the same.
The phone rang.
“Miss Walker?” It was the name she was registered under, complete with her own set of false documents and a credit card on which she was running her tab for both the room and the downstairs bar.
“Yes?”
“Someone has left a note for you at the front desk. Shall I have someone bring it up?”
“I’ll get it myself. Be right down.”
“Thank you.”
She switched off the TV. Should she take her bag? No, because this wasn’t the drill they’d agreed upon. Kent was due to arrive at any moment, but he was supposed to announce himself to the front desk as a personal visitor, Mr. Andrews. The desk would then summon her downstairs. Had he changed their plans on the fly?
Moments later she approached the front desk.
“I’m Miss Walker. You called about a note?”
The desk clerk was a German woman in her early thirties, crisp and businesslike in her movements, with a ready smile for the clientele. She turned and took an envelope from a slot with Claire’s room number.
“Here you are. An older man dropped it off just a moment ago.”
Grimm, perhaps? Was he canceling on them?
“Thank you.”
She took the envelope, impatiently rode the elevator back upstairs, and, in an excess of caution, took it into the bathroom to open it. Enclosed was a page of blank stationery, nearly filled with handwritten English, cursive. There was no signature, but she knew right away it had come from Baucom.
Her first thought was that he was becoming entirely too intrusive. First, he’d shown up uninvited at Tacheles, and now this, when he might easily have crossed paths with Ron Kent, raising all sorts of unwanted questions.
As she carefully read the message, her assessment shifted. Useful information, she supposed, and reassuring.
It was a summary of Ron Kent’s career. Top of his class at the Farm, high marks across the board ever since. Ward’s protégé for sure, but not what you’d call a yes-man. She liked him, too. Under other circumstances they might even have become friends. She realized that now as she was reading.
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again.
“Miss Walker? Sorry to disturb you again, but there’s a visitor here. A Mr. Andrews?”
“Tell him I’ll be right down.”
She picked up her overnight bag, shut off the light, and headed for the elevators.
It was time to cross over. A night on hostile ground loomed, with an appointment in the forest set for around 4 a.m. She hoped Emil Grimm wouldn’t keep them waiting.
46
Maybe the Barkas van was to blame. Not the discomfort of its cold, hard floor as much as its track record as a Stasi vehicle of doom. Emil’s nerves also played a role, no doubt, especially in the absolute darkness of the haunted location, tucked among the homes and trees that had once sheltered the overlords of this fallen kingdom.
Whatever the dark alchemy of that tormented night, at some point Emil slipped into a dream that may have been no dream at all, a recapitulation of his most shameful moment as a servant of the state. He watched it play out in that half-conscious state between wakefulness and sleep. Later he couldn’t have said for sure whether his eyes were open or closed, only that everything was as vivid as the day it had happened, five years earlier.
The whole episode had begun with a chance encounter in the corridors of Normanenstrasse, when a colleague from internal security, Klug, had stepped off the paternoster and drawn him aside. The subject was Emil’s neighbor, Frau Holbein, mother of two, the same woman whom Emil had recently taken pains to avoid when he had sneaked back into his old apartment on Frankfurter Allee.
On the day Klug accosted him, Emil and Bettina were happy and healthy, facing a cloudless horizon. Professionally, Emil’s star was on the rise.
“Magda Holbein, you mean? She’s not in trouble, I hope?”
“No, no. It’s what she’s been saying lately. About your wife.”
“Bettina?”
“Yes. Nothing terrible really, but—”
“Wait a minute. Saying to whom?”
“Her, well…”
“Her reporting officer?”
Klug nodded.
“I see. So Magda’s an informant.”
“A careful citizen, yes, doing her duty. But perhaps a little overzealous, so I thought you should know. Supposedly she’s in some social club with your wife?”
“Yes, in our building. They play cards, swap stories. The women bring their children, and that’s one reason Bettina goes. She enjoys seeing all the kids playing in the other room.”
What Emil didn’t add was that Magda Holbein was one of Bettina’s least favorite neighbors, even though she adored the Holbein children. Bettina had told him Magda was a shameless gossip, a busybody. She would smile at you in the morning and trash you to the neighbors an hour later. So he wasn’t at all surprised to learn she was an informant.
“Apparently your wife is quite outspoken at these gatherings. Or has been lately. Something about criticizing the State Planning Commission for not building enough bakeries, which then led to a joke about our party’s general secretary.”
“Honecker?”
Klug looked around nervously, as if worried they’d be overheard.
“Yes.”
“As you said yourself, it was a joke. We’ve probably heard worse in our cafeteria.”
“Of course, but now it’s in her file. And, by implication, part of yours, so you might have a word. Maybe tell your wife to moderate her words. At least whenever she’s around this neighbor of yours.”
Emil had considered doing exactly that. But by the time he got home that night he couldn’t bring himself to do it, or even tell her about the report, not when Bettina was so personable and well-meaning, a helpful neighbor who gave treats to everyone’s children, Magda’s included. And she had already made the sacrifice of cutting off all contact with members of her family in the West. No, it wasn’t fair, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. So instead he made a few calls, and then he waited. Two days later, the phone rang on his desk.
“The Barkas arrived outside her apartment half an hour ago, sir. She was with her children at the playground. She’s now on her way.”
“To Hohenschönhausen?”
“Yes.”
“How long before she arrives?”
“The route is twenty minutes, but they always like to drive them around a few hours while they’re blindfolded and don’t know where they’re going.”
“I see.” He’d known that, but the reminder was a little jarring.
“And on arrival, of course, they’ll give her a strip search and put her in a jumpsuit.”
Then, as he also knew, they would put her in a cell where she would have to sit perfectly still while they watched her through a slot in the door.
“So, when should I arrive? Two hours, maybe?”
“Make it four.”
Emil had blanched a bit, but didn’t raise an objection.
Hohenschönhausen Prison was the Stasi’s main holding area for political criminals. It was, by design, a bleak and unwelcoming place. The cells doubled as interrogation chambers. Each was equipped with a narrow bed, a sink, and a toilet, and also a desk and an office chair for an interrogator. Uncertainty was one of Hohenschönhausen’s most potent tools. Few arrivals even knew why they’d been brought there, and none knew how long they’d be staying. A few hours? Weeks? A lifetime?
That was the unsettled state of mind in which Emil found Magda Holbein when he arrived shortly after nightfall, accompanied by a guard. She wore a jumpsuit of the same bright blue as the warm-ups worn by East Germany’s Olympic athletes. The resemblance was so striking that Emil half expected to see “DDR” printed in white across the back.
When he stepped into her cell she had her back to him, seated before the interrogator’s desk in the mandatory waiting position, stiffly upright on a backless stool, palms wedged beneath her thighs. He wondered if she had yet been permitted to use the toilet.
Because she wasn’t allowed to turn around without permission, she wouldn’t know the identity of a visitor unless he spoke or moved into view. Emil cleared his throat and saw her flinch. He stepped into her field of vision and addressed her in a tone of fatherly concern.
“Magda? Is that really you, my friend?”
She turned sideways as he approached, which prompted a shout from the guard.
“Face the front!”
“No, no,” he told the guard. “That will not do. Leave the room while I speak to her.”
The guard departed. Emil moved closer and offered her a water bottle, but she seemed reluctant to take it.
“Please. I know you must be thirsty. And sit over here, it will be much more comfortable.”
He pulled the office chair from behind the desk and gestured for her to take it. She nodded, stood stiffly, gratefully sagged into it. As she unscrewed the cap on the water bottle, she lowered her head and began to sob.
“There, there, now.” Emil patted her back. “This can only be the result of some terrible misunderstanding, yes?”
“I don’t know,” she said, gasping between sobs. “I really don’t know. They came and took me in front of everyone, like an enemy of the state. My children were there! Our neighbors.”
“Yes, I know. Bettina phoned me as soon as she heard. She was so upset for you. And for your children, of course. She pleaded with me to set things right. I came as soon as I could.”
“But why? Why has this happened?”
“I am doing all I can to find out. I have made several phone calls, and I’ve talked to several people. And, well, I am still not sure if I can make heads or tails of it. But…” He let the phrase hang in the air.
“What? What have I done?”
“Well, I confess I don’t know the meaning of this. Perhaps you will. But as best as I’ve been able to determine, you must have made some sort of inflammatory charge in one of your recent reports, to your security officer.”
“Inflammatory?”
“As I said, it’s a puzzle to me, because I am not privy to those reports. But it was suggested that perhaps you made an insinuation against someone of prominence, someone of unshakable reputation. Because, you see, even in our zeal to serve the state, we sometimes say impolitic things that have a damaging effect. Do you understand?”
“No. Or…maybe. But I’m not sure.”
“Because, you see, these files that we keep. These records. They mean that any remarks of yours, no matter how insignificant, can never be erased. They are forever. And while one such error in judgment on your part might be forgivable, if it were ever to occur again, well, next time I’m not sure I would be able to assist you. Do you see?”
She spoke in a very small voice.
“Yes. I see.”
“But let me see what I can do on your behalf. Usually I am reluctant to interfere in affairs of the state. It is only because my wife insisted that I am here at all. Although you will of course be best advised not to mention this to her or to anyone else. No one. Do you understand that as well?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. She finally drank some water, which dribbled onto her chin. “When will they let me leave?”
“I do not know. Maybe in a few days? A week, perhaps? It is beyond my control.”
She sobbed again. More tears fell.
“I will do my best to see that it is less.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!”
She rose to her feet, wobbled, and then her eyes rolled back in her head as she started to collapse. Emil lunged forward to catch her, and she heaved against him awkwardly, causing him to stumble backward and twist his right knee so that it buckled beneath him as they fell in a heap to the floor.
The guard, hearing Emil’s cry of pain, rushed back into the cell and reflexively raised his truncheon at the sight of an apparent struggle.
“No!” Emil said, fending off the blow with his left forearm. “Damn you!”
“Sorry, sir. But I thought—”
“Yes, I know what you thought. Help me put her into this bed.”
She revived a few moments later. Emil again promised to do what he could on her behalf and then left, limping all the way to his car. Two days later they released her. Magda Holbein was never again a problem for Emil or Bettina. And when he next saw her, pushing her youngest child in a stroller around the same playground where they had snatched her up, the fear still lingered in her eyes.
In gratitude for her salvation, she baked them a cake, even though sugar and flour at that time had been as rare as spun gold. Later, of course, she must have figured out the whole thing, and from then on, even as Bettina’s health deteriorated, she had remained cold, distant, disapproving.
But the greater impact had been upon Emil, and not just because of the lingering pain of his wrenched knee. On the drive home that night from Hohenschönhausen, he had felt the shame of his actions on him like a coating of sweat or grime. For days the smell of the prison had clung to his skin and hair, no matter how many times he showered. It was that episode, he now realized, that had tipped the balance of his doubts, convincing him irretrievably that the state he served had become corrupted beyond salvation, and that he had become a willing party to its inevitable decline.
