Brandenburg (22 page)

Then three men came, unlocked the door, pulled him from the cell and frogmarched him along the empty corridor, down a flight of stairs to a loading bay where a white van waited. Three steps led up to an open door in the side. Rosenharte saw the tiny compartments and a row of key hooks by the door. He demanded to be told where he was being taken, but they said nothing, forced him up the steps and into the nearest cubicle and slammed the door. There was a ledge, which for a smaller man could act as a seat, a steel bar that ran from floor to ceiling and a ring at his feet. At least he hadn’t been manacled to the bar, which was the way that he guessed most prisoners travelled.

Someone banged the side of the truck and shouted, and it moved out of the bay into the open. Soon he could hear the light morning traffic around them. He sensed that they were going north but after a few minutes gave up trying to keep track. There was no point, and - frankly - his terror had got the better of him. Konrad had told him about these vans, and how the Stasi took suspects on long journeys before depositing them at an interrogation centre or prison having achieved the first requirement of dominance and control over a subject - disorientation. It had been weeks before Konrad knew that he was in Berlin, not Karl-Marx-Stadt. And only the brief sighting of an arrowhead of migrating geese had told him he had been taken to Rostock for his trial. There were tales of men being driven for days, manacled to bars in the cubicles so that they could not sit, stand, or move to keep themselves warm in winter.

Rosenharte’s journey lasted just twenty minutes. After a series of abrupt turns the truck slowed and entered another enclosed space where the engine was shut off. There was silence for a few seconds: no shouting, no banging. The door to his cubicle was opened and he was beckoned into the gloom of a large garage, where an identical white lorry stood. A little way from the bottom of the steps, Colonel Zank stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He glanced down as he screwed a cigarette butt into the ground with his shoe, then looked up with a grin. Perhaps Zank knew Rosenharte was out of cigarettes.

‘Never say that we do not keep our word,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Hohenschönhausen.’

A metal door rolled back with a low rumble. Zank gestured Rosenharte out into a large courtyard at the centre of which there was a square of grass and one or two shrubs. Three sides were occupied by uniform blocks rising five storeys high. Nowhere in the GDR was there a building more expressive of the state’s ponderous brutality.

‘This is our main facility,’ said Zank. ‘We have every convenience here.’

Rosenharte looked around at the barred windows - hundreds of them, behind which he knew lay identical cells and interrogation rooms. ‘Every convenience?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Zank, lighting a cigarette. ‘We can take pride in the work that’s done here. Without Hohenschönhausen where would we be? The hostile negative forces would have overrun the state years ago. It’s important to remember such things during this fortieth anniversary year.’

They turned right to walk away from the interrogation blocks along a stretch of the perimeter wall. Zank threw out an arm to a long, low, red brick building to his left. ‘This was constructed by the Nazis as a kitchen and feeding station. The Soviets used it to detain objectors to the de-Nazification programme in the years after the war. There were cells in the basement, named the U-boats by prisoners. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?’

Rosenharte nodded. Hunched over Marie Theresa’s hearth and a bottle of Goldbrand, Konrad had whispered the secrets of the U-boats, the warren of cells, flooded with freezing cold water, where men were left to rot in the dark. He hinted at unspeakable tortures practised by people who proclaimed liberation from Nazi barbarity yet employed the Gestapo’s methods. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of martyrs had been destroyed in the U-boats, their spirits broken and robbed in the underground hell.

‘Of course we have no need for this place now,’ said Zank, as though talking of some distant historic curiosity. ‘Our methods today, well, let us say they are more humane and sophisticated. We work
with
our subjects to show them how their actions have jeopardized the collective security of the state. Naturally, inquiries into criminal activities are still the basis of the work at Hohenschönhausen, but we all understand that punishment
and
reform are the twin pillars of the judicial system.’ On the word reform he had raised his index finger in the air.

‘I’m sure,’ said Rosenharte leadenly. He wondered whether Zank was in fact with Department XIV which ran the Stasi’s chain of penal and interrogation institutions. Hohenschönhausen was in his jurisdiction; Konrad was his prisoner.

They took a left turn and came to the main entrance where there were two electronically operated gates for vehicles, a small gatehouse and a side entrance for pedestrians. Except for the men in the watchtowers at each corner of the compound, and three men visible in the gatehouse at the front, no one was about. That was the striking thing about Zank’s ‘facility’. It was past eight thirty, but they had seen less than a dozen people since their arrival. There was a monastic hush about the place, a profound, internalized concentration, which signified to Rosenharte that the business of crushing and breaking souls began at an early hour each day.

‘And over here, beyond the reception centre, we have the prison hospital. Oh yes, we have a hospital here, too.’

Was this genuine pride, or Zank’s idea of humour? Rosenharte felt dread in his stomach. He understood that the journey in the prison truck from Normannenstrasse and Zank’s little tour had been designed to intimidate him, but this was nothing compared to the news that Konrad was in the hospital. It would take a genuine medical emergency for the interrogators to relinquish one of their subjects to the dubious care of the Hohenschönhausen medical staff. Konrad had often told him that most sickness here and at Bautzen was regarded as malingering.

They reached a door at the centre of a long, narrow building with a tiled roof, which Zank informed him was the oldest in the compound. He pressed a bell and a tall, cadaverous attendant in a white coat appeared behind the glass, drew several bolts and turned a key.

‘Security, security!’ Zank said, with mock dismay. ‘Still, we can never be too careful, can we? After you, please.’

The man Rosenharte had taken for an attendant turned out to be a Dr Streffer, a Stasi officer with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. He led them along a corridor, which stank in equal parts of urine and a coarse cleaning fluid he remembered from his school days. They reached a glazed door that was covered with an iron mesh. The glass was grimy and there were smears of dirt on the doorframe and along the skirting board on either side. Rosenharte tried, but could see nothing through the glass.

Streffer turned and, avoiding Rosenharte’s eyes, fixed his gaze to a spot over his shoulder. ‘It is forbidden to have physical contact with the prisoner. It is forbidden to exchange articles with the prisoner. It is forbidden to give information to the prisoner that is not strictly of a personal nature. It is forbidden to talk of release dates or any part of the legal security process that has brought him here. You may not refer to the inquiries that he is subject to or the conditions of this facility. These are state secrets. Is that understood?’

Rosenharte nodded.

‘If any of these conditions are not met, the interview will be terminated immediately. Prisoner 122 is—’

‘Konrad!’ said Rosenharte fiercely. ‘His name is Konrad Rosenharte.’

‘Prisoner 122 is a very sick man and he will tire easily. You would be well-advised not to place any further strain on his heart.’

He turned the handle and pushed the door open. Konrad was seated at a table in filthy pyjamas. His hands were crossed in front of him and his head was drooping. It was clear he had no idea what was going on. When he looked up, his expression remained blank, as though he was struggling with some kind of delusion.

‘Konnie. It’s me - Rudi.’

A smile began to shine in his eyes as he took in Rosenharte’s features. ‘Is it really you?’ he asked. ‘Good Lord, it is you, Rudi. How did you get in here? They don’t allow visitors.’ His voice was lifeless; every word was an effort. ‘Am I going to die? Is that why they let you in?’

‘No Konnie, you’re not going to die. I have done a deal to see you. I’m doing all I can to bring you home. They know you’re too ill to cause any trouble. They understand that.’ As he spoke, Rosenharte took in the shell of his twin. Since his first imprisonment, Konrad had looked five or six years older than Rosenharte. His hair had thinned and, owing to the loss of several teeth, his cheeks were a little sunken. But up until that summer they were still unmistakably identical twins. They stood at the same height and were within a few pounds of each other’s weight.

Nothing could have prepared Rosenharte for the sight of his brother in that room. He had lost twenty to thirty pounds; his eyes had retreated into his skull; the veins stood out on his hands and neck; his forearms were like an old man’s. The slightest action, as when he brushed his cheek with the back of his bony hand, caused what remained of his vitality to drain.

‘What deal have you done, Rudi?’ He smiled - that old sceptical smile that he used to tease Rosenharte when he was being dogmatic or pompous. ‘What deal can you do with these people?’ His eyes moved to Zank, who was standing behind Rosenharte, and then to the doctor. ‘You can’t deal with them, because all they want is to finish me off. That is their only objective.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Zank. ‘You may not speculate on the motives of this institution. You may not utter defamations against the state.’

Konrad shrugged like a drunk and bowed his head. ‘I’m sick, Rudi. I know that. Maybe I don’t have long.’

Rosenharte shook his head desperately. ‘I’ll get you out of here and find you proper treatment, Konnie. Else and the boys will be free by this time tomorrow.’

Konrad’s eyes rose to meet his, a look of hope gleaming through the pain. ‘How did . . .?

‘Don’t tire yourself, dear brother.’ Before Zank or Streffer could intervene, he moved forward, grasped Konrad’s shoulder and looked down into his expression.

‘Unhand the prisoner. Step away now,’ Streffer commanded.

Rosenharte did as he was told. ‘I am rendering certain services that are important to the state.’ He glanced at Zank. ‘Look, they know Else is a loyal citizen; they understand the boys deserve to be with their mother at home. This will happen. I’m telling you this will happen!’ He looked at Zank again, but got no response.

‘That’s good, Rudi; you’ve done well.’ He smiled again. Rosenharte noted that even now he enjoyed the warmth of his brother’s approval. It had always been like that. However much he had achieved, Konnie’s praise was the only thing that mattered, and that was because Konnie’s standards were high. He knew what they were both capable of, knew when Rosenharte was coasting. It had always been Konnie that kept them up to the mark, whether in cross-country skiing competitions or mastering a new subject at school. Now, as his brother suffered for his beliefs, it made Rosenharte feel shallow and inadequate. In his
Überwinterung
- his hibernation - he had shirked his moral and intellectual responsibilities, and instead retreated to an inner sphere, taking his pleasures when he could, with women and drink and the exquisite proximity to the work of great artists. He had let the banners and the slogans, the repression and coercion, wash over him, convinced that he was following a higher calling and leading the only authentic life he could. But he was wrong. Konnie’s protest may have been subtle and puzzling, but at least he had remained true to himself.

They looked at each other for a moment. The presence of Streffer and Zank was no obstacle to their ability to communicate. Konrad understood what his brother was thinking, saw the fear and guilt in his eyes and assuaged it with a humorous wink. These messages passed so quickly that they barely noted or articulated them. Just a few minutes into the meeting, they were in each other’s minds - back on the old wooden jetty near the Rosenharte farm, looking at their identical reflections in the water of the lake and watching sticklebacks glide between the weeds.

‘We’ll have a picnic on the jetty yet,’ said Rosenharte. ‘Next summer we’ll take the boys and Else there and show them how to catch trout. And when you’re feeling stronger, we’ll do some hiking. Just you and me, like old times. Maybe a little cross-country skiing.’

‘Yes,’ said Konrad. ‘We shall certainly do that.’

Zank moved to the door and Streffer averted his gaze to the window.

‘I
will
get you out of here, Konnie. Just hold on for me.’

‘Good,’ said Konnie. ‘That’s good. I’ll do my best.’

Streffer opened the door. ‘The interview is terminated. The prisoner is too weak.’

Before Rosenharte could say anything more, he had been guided out of the door by Zank. In the passage he shouted out: ‘Hold on, Konnie. Just hold on!’

Outside, Zank escorted him to the main gate, where they found Biermeier waiting with a car. As they reached him, Rosenharte suddenly turned and gripped Zank’s shoulder at the collarbone. For a moment he thought he would kill him. ‘You’d better make sure that my brother receives the proper treatment, because I am holding you personally responsible for his wellbeing.’ Zank shook himself free. ‘Remember Zank,’ he hissed, ‘you can never be sure of the cards you’re dealt in life.’

He didn’t know what he had meant, other than that the system from which Zank drew his power was no longer an eternal monolithic certainty. Zank’s features hardened and a chilly, sadistic mediocrity was momentarily revealed. Maybe he understood better than his masters that times were dangerous for the Party and the Stasi. He was, after all, still a young man, and he knew as well as any member of his generation that the subterranean forces might one day prove too strong for the Party apparatus. Zank glanced at Biermeier with a look of contempt - either for Biermeier or Rosenharte, it was not clear - spun on his heels and walked off in the direction of the administration block.