Stasi Child (11 page)

Standing nervously in front of his office desk, Müller could see the suspicion in Reiniger’s expression. But he nevertheless agreed to sign the necessary form of authority.

‘I hope you’re not bending the rules here, Karin.’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘And if you are, make sure you don’t get caught. I don’t want any of your shit left at my door. Understand?’

Finding a suitable truck proved easier than Müller expected – Schmidt seemed to have strange contacts everywhere. She and Tilsner had tracked it along Siegfriedstrasse, and then – with the Wartburg’s siren blaring and blue light flashing – pulled it over in Herzbergstrasse. The driver and his mate protested their innocence, but once Müller made it clear that they would be arrested if they defied Reiniger’s signed order, they calmed down. Müller insisted she and Tilsner would explain the situation to the motorway construction company, but that they would have to confiscate the vehicle to check its contents thoroughly, grain by grain.

They were in the truck now, driving slowly back towards Lichtenberg for the second time in the space of a few hours: their first visit had taken place the previous afternoon, to check that the slightly hare-brained scheme at least had a chance of success. The next significant movement of limousines from the service depot on the industrial estate to the storage compound was due in a few hours’ time – and would be under cover of darkness. Müller and Tilsner were heading there now in the tipper truck, with Schmidt following behind in the unmarked
Kripo
Wartburg. Both vehicles with just their sidelights on to try to make sure they didn’t draw attention to themselves down the wide boulevards of the eastern part of the Hauptstadt. Müller glanced to her left in the lorry’s cab, where Tilsner had his hands gripped to the IFA W50 tipper’s steering wheel, shirtsleeves rolled up despite the winter weather. He seemed all too at ease in what ought to have been an unfamiliar role. There was a lot to her handsome but mysterious deputy that she still hadn’t fathomed.

The wide avenues they were driving down were the scene of the parades that had played in her head at the cemetery. She recalled the most recent: celebrating the Republic’s twenty-fifth anniversary, the previous October. Müller had stood at the edge of the crowd, filled with a sense of pride about what her small country had achieved, watching the massed ranks of People’s Army soldiers on their synchronised march, followed by party and government leaders – in Volvo limousines. Now, that pride was replaced by a sense of foreboding. Karl-Marx-Allee, and its monolithic wedding-cake-style buildings, held a much more sinister air in the semi-darkness of weak street lighting. Were they doing the right thing? It felt slightly treacherous. But then she remembered the mangled face of the girl, and what had happened to her in the hours immediately before and after death. If anyone from the government or party was involved in
that
, well, they deserved to be brought to justice and shamed.

Schmidt had provided them with their disguises – the hard hats and overalls of construction workers – together with diversion barriers and lanterns from the People’s Police’s supply depot, which they’d thrown on the back of the tipper truck. They needed to work quickly, closing off a section of Siegfriedstrasse between two junctions and putting up the diversion signs. Schmidt had established that a convoy of limousines would move between the two bases tonight, and had even pinned down an exact time. Müller didn’t ask him how he’d obtained the information. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Traffic was thin at this time of night, and the drivers of the few vehicles that did reach their makeshift roadblock simply followed the signs for the alternative route. Closed-off roads were a daily occurrence in the Hauptstadt, so they didn’t arouse suspicion.

Tilsner manoeuvred the tipper truck to one side of the road, crunching through the gears, making Müller want to hold her hands over her ears. He didn’t seem such a confident driver now.

Once in position, all was silent, other than a beeping sound from inside the truck’s cabin.

‘
Scheisse!
’ he exclaimed from the open driver’s window. ‘I can’t get the back to tip up.’

Müller climbed up to the cab to try to help.

‘It should be this lever,’ said Tilsner, forcing it forwards, the strain etched on his face. ‘But it’s not working. Any bright ideas?’

Müller leant over to the driver’s side and glanced around the cabin controls. She could smell Tilsner’s all-male scent, his masculinity somehow accentuated by the workman’s overalls. His square-jawed face thrown into sharp relief by the weak street lighting. His breathing laboured from the effort of trying to force the controls to do what he wanted.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Not really my strong point.’ She moved across to the passenger window, unwound it and leant out. ‘Jonas! Come up here a moment.’

She helped pull the weighty forensic officer into the cab, his face flushed with the effort of climbing up. Tilsner demonstrated the problem.

Schmidt immediately laughed. ‘You won’t get anywhere that way. Here.’ He pushed a red lever – one that neither Müller nor Tilsner had noticed – to one side. ‘You have to release the safety catch first, like that. Now try again.’

This time – amid the scrapes and scratching of poorly oiled metal rubbing against metal – they could see the back start to lift.

‘Drive forward at the same time,’ said Schmidt, squeezed onto the front passenger bench next to Müller. ‘That way you’ll spread out the load better and there’ll be less spadework for us to get everything ready.’

The roar of the diesel engine competed with the whoosh of the sand as it slid off the back of the tipper and onto the road below. There was a sudden fresh smell of aggregate dust combined with sweet diesel fumes: it reminded Müller of the Ostsee holidays of her childhood, and later when courting Gottfried. Beaches, harbours, pleasure boats. When the world had seemed a much more straightforward place.

With the load of sand emptied, Tilsner brought the rear of the tipper truck to the horizontal, then manoeuvred the vehicle – with more gear-crunching – back to the opposite side of the road. Now one side of this section of Siegfriedstrasse was blocked by the truck – the other by a partly flattened pile of sand. The three police officers worked with the shovels and brushes they’d brought with them to fully level off the sand pile.

Müller glanced at her watch.
Scheisse!
Only five minutes before the convoy was due. If the cars came early, or if they didn’t finish in time, there could be trouble.

‘Hurry it up. Both of you,’ she shouted. ‘We’ve only a couple of minutes left.’

Tilsner pulled Schmidt’s shovel out of his hands. ‘You’re doing more harm than good. Anyway, you need to get into position.’

The forensic officer ran up the road towards the entrance to the industrial estate, stopping every fifty metres or so to get his breath back. Once in position, he waited for the convoy of limousines to emerge as Müller and Tilsner frantically finished smoothing out the layer of sand.

Müller looked at her watch again. The limousines should be here now, but still no sign. She kept her eyes trained on Schmidt further up the road, but as the minutes ticked by, he still hadn’t given her the agreed hand signal.

Another ten minutes passed. At last she saw the
Kriminaltechniker
raise his arm. The cars were underway.

She quickly removed the barriers from their section of the road, placing them instead across the side streets that until now had been the diversion route. The only way for the limousine convoy to proceed now was over the layer of sand.

As the long-wheelbase cars approached, Tilsner and Müller began to shovel sand from the side of the layer back into the rear of the truck, to give the impression they were clearing up a spillage.

The first driver stopped as he passed, unwinding his window and shouting at Müller as she held a hand up to her eyes to protect them from the headlights of the following vehicles.

‘What the fuck’s happened here?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve just cleaned these cars. We don’t want sand all over them.’

Müller shrugged in apology. ‘I’m sorry. Our load tipped off accidentally. We’re working as fast as we can to clear up.’

She could see the man roll his eyes, his face highlighted by the beam of the car behind. She knew what he was thinking.
Women working as construction workers
. Like many East German men, he probably thought that they should be at home doing the housework. But that wasn’t the way it happened. The female workers and peasants of this little country played a full role. The driver and his ilk would eventually learn to accept that. Müller began to shovel again, directing her anger into scraping the aggregate from the road surface as the car moved off.

Tilsner, following their pre-arranged plan, moved slightly further into the sand-covered side of the road with his shovel as the second limousine was about to drive through. It earned a beep from the car’s horn, but achieved what Müller had planned. The car had to swing further round, making new tyre prints rather than following the same tracks as the first limousine.

They repeated the same trick for the third and final car of the short convoy. This time the driver not only blared his horn, but shouted in anger at Tilsner. ‘Get out of the way, idiot. You’ll get run over.’ But the policeman held his ground, and the scheme had succeeded again. The limousine driver had to mount the kerb on the far side, but the driver’s side tyres made a third distinct set of tracks.

After the three limousines had disappeared around the corner towards Normannenstrasse, Müller and Tilsner put the diversion signs back in place, and Schmidt arrived at a half-run, panting.

‘Sorry, only three cars, Comrade
Oberleutnant
,’ he said apologetically. ‘Maybe they only service and clean the limousines that have actually been used in the previous week.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s better than nothing, Jonas. Well done for getting the information. Take your photographs of the tyre imprints, and then let’s get out of here before anyone realises what’s going on.’

13

Nine months earlier (May 1974).

Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen, East Germany.

My three days of isolation are over. Last night I was back in the dorm, and thankfully, despite their threats, Neumann and Richter haven’t separated me from Beate. Last night she slept well for once.

I’ve survived the bunker. I try to remember that saying from school: ‘that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. I think that’s what it was. I feel stronger for having got through it, even though my task in the workshop today is considered physically the most demanding. It’s packing. Packing and carrying. But although it’s the most tiring – because of the heavy lifting when the boxes are ready – I still prefer it to the drilling and cutting workshop, which is just so boring, and it’s easier to make a mistake and get into trouble. Here, the precision-cut strips of wood and chipboard have to be carefully placed into the cardboard boxes interleaved with protective paper, and then sealed and wheeled out of the factory to the yard and loaded onto pallets. But going where? That’s what intrigues me now. Herr Müller had been about to tell me, I was sure of that.

‘Get a move on, Irma. Stop daydreaming. You don’t want to be sent back to the bunker now, do you?’ The admonishment comes from Frau Schettler, who supervises the packing room after her breakfast shift. But she’s smiling as she delivers it, so in return I knuckle down and speed up. Kitchen cabinet door, left side, right side, cabinet back, shelves, top, bottom. And don’t forget the corrugated paper between each layer, or the plastic bag of fixings. Then tape up the box and load the forks of the trolley. It’s repetitive, dull, but you can’t go wrong, really. Another self-assembly kitchen unit safely despatched. Frau Schettler is generally kind, and she has a soft spot for me, treats me a bit like a naughty daughter. I look up at her, grin, and she smiles back in return.

One reason I feel happier today is I actually got the full breakfast this morning. The whole works. Fresh bread roll, sausage and cheese. Richter was right about that. Working on a full stomach
is
better.

I notice Schettler going into the office to check something. I look to my left and right – Mathias Gelman one side of me, Bauer on the other. Both seem to be concentrating on fulfilling their packing quotas. I take the chance to glance at the small pocket book Herr Müller gave to me at breakfast time. ‘It’s to help you with your studies, Irma,’ he’d said. I pull it out of the front of my knickers – no one would look there, I hope.
A History of Rügen
. A strange book to give me. I flick through the pages, not really understanding why a maths teacher would give me a local history book. Then I spot Schettler returning with some papers, and quickly hide the book away.

‘What was that?’ a male voice asks.

I turn my head and realise Mathias has seen it. Heartthrob Mathias. Every girl’s dream. That’s the other advantage of the packing room. You get to meet boys. The only chance in Prora Ost – other than at mealtimes. That’s why Beate likes it too. She will be so jealous I’m here next to Mathias – I’ve seen the way they look at each other. I think she’s sweet on him. Maybe he’s turned her down? Maybe that’s why she’s crying all the time? Perhaps I have a chance with him.

‘It’s just a book.’ I feel myself blushing under his gaze, as I realise I’m being disloyal to my friend. And what would Mathias Gelman ever see in me, anyway?

‘What book?’

‘Oh, just something Herr Müller gave me at breakfast. A history of Rügen. He knows I’m a local.’

‘A local yokel from Rügen,’ snorts Mathias.

I punch him on the arm. ‘Don’t make fun of me, Mathias.’

‘Why do you want a local history book if you’re from the island? Don’t you know it all already, you local types?’

‘Oh, just piss off,’ I say, and turn back to my work.

But Frau Schettler has seen the exchange. ‘Behrendt! Gellman! Come here. Now.’ We leave the packing bench and move forward, the book chafing between my legs. I try my best to look shamefaced. But Mathias keeps his head held high.