Puzzle People (9781613280126) (25 page)

Everyone was cheering, everyone was smiling, everyone was hugging one another. But for Elsa, this week had become a nightmare. She had been in the West since 1962, and she had seen the Wall as a protective barrier, keeping out the East. All her secrets were safely locked away in the East, but with the Wall down, those secrets were unleashed. People who knew things about her would be free to speak. People like Stefan Hansel.

With the television news still blaring, she walked over to her telephone message recorder and pushed the Play button. This was the fourth time she listened to the message. Stefan’s voice crackled over the line.

“Elsa. This is Stefan Hansel. I know you must be shocked to hear my voice, but I would like to meet with you. I have things to tell you. Important things. If you hear this message, please come to Café Mauer on Lehrter Strasse at eight o’clock tomorrow night. The truth shall set us free.”

The truth shall set us free.

Elsa felt cold, so she went to the couch and lay down on her side, pulling a blanket over her shoulders. She brought her knees tightly to her chest and stared at the television, without really watching the events unfolding. The screen was just dancing pixels, nothing more. She wanted to sleep but couldn’t. A pain settled in the pit of her stomach, and she began to sweat and shake.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

She raised her head from the couch and looked toward the hallway, where her husband, Hans, stood in the shadows.

“Please, turn off the television and come to bed.”

“Soon,” she said.

She heard the click of the television set going dark, and then she felt her husband lifting her, bringing her to her feet, and then gently leading her to the bedroom. She passed by the rooms of her three children, and she felt terror. Her entire world was in peril. All because a wall had come down.

Elsa lay down in bed, and Hans was soon asleep, judging by his breathing. She closed her eyes, but she didn’t sleep for hours. She was trapped in yet another waking nightmare.

38

Berlin
September 2003

Annie was getting so good at puzzling that she seriously considered entering another jigsaw competition. By now, she could pick up on the slightest difference in paper and ink and typewriter. Every typewriter had its own personality, leaving its own unique signature—a broken serif on the letter
t
or an
a
that smudged so badly that it filled in with ink. She could spot these differences in an instant as she separated pieces into piles of related fragments.

“Once Upon a Time in the West
is my favorite, hands down,” Kurt said.

To while away the time, Annie had made a game out of ranking Kurt’s favorite movies, favorite books, favorite foods, and so on. He would write down his top five, and then she tried to predict his rankings. Today’s topic: favorite Westerns.

“The opening scene alone makes it a masterpiece,” he said. “Not a word spoken for I don’t know how long. Just the sounds of insects and squeaking metal in the wind. Yet Sergio Leone still managed to ratchet up the tension. Brilliant.”

“I saw it long ago and can only vaguely remember it.”

In truth, all that Annie remembered was that she saw it with Jack at her side. Her husband loved action movies, and he had insisted she see at least one per month; she agreed, as long he saw one romantic comedy per month.

Office life with Kurt had improved dramatically, and things were almost back to the way they were before their argument over spying. They could talk naturally again, although they stayed only near the emotional surface. Annie was afraid that if they went too deep, Kurt might bring up the words he had blurted—“I love you too much.” She couldn’t deal with that.

Earlier in the day, they had taken a stroll at lunch, which was the only time that they would dare discuss the files and the mystery of Herr Adler and Elsa Fleischer. If Herr Adler really was running some sort of blackmail operation, Kurt worried that the office might be bugged.

Annie told Kurt she had confirmed that the woman in Herr Adler’s daily planner was Elsa. She had called the phone number scrawled across her hand, and a woman had picked up.

“Frau Fleischer?” Annie had said, assuming that
E. F.
stood for
Elsa Fleischer.

Silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Yes?”

“Is this Elsa Fleischer? Elsa Krauss?”

“Who is this please?”

At that point, Annie hung up. But she had her answer. The woman that Herr Adler had met for lunch was the woman from her files.

Now, back in the office, back in front of their puzzle pieces, they didn’t dare speak a word about Elsa Fleischer or Herr Adler. With mechanical precision, Annie pieced together some deadly dull reports on one family’s daily habits. They had to have been one of the most boring families in East Berlin, and why they warranted surveillance was beyond her. The reports went into excruciating detail about their daily routines. It was so monotonous that Annie wondered if the informer keeping watch on this family intentionally tried to irritate the Stasi handlers who had to slog through the reports.

“You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow, have you?” Kurt asked.

“How could I forget? I’m really looking forward to it.”

He had invited her to his apartment for another dinner. She was afraid he would use the occasion to discuss his feelings for her, but she didn’t think her apprehension showed through.

It was a dreary day—cold and drizzly with gusts of wind spattering the window and rattling the pane, as if the wind was trying to get in just so it could wreak havoc, scattering their piles of paper in all directions. As the day wore on, the sky cleared and midafternoon drowsiness came over Annie like a chloroform cloud, and she found herself drifting away and then jolting awake. She was afraid that her sleep-filled head would suddenly hit her desk with a clunk. Once again, she had vowed to cut back on Pepsi, but she broke her vow in the name of alertness, hoping that a jolt of caffeine would keep her vertical.

All at once, her senses came alive, but it had nothing to do with the caffeine in her bloodstream.

Annie stared at the slip of paper in her hand—a piece that had been obviously ripped by hand. It was a good-sized piece, about four inches wide, and she gently sorted through her sack for anything that remotely resembled the same kind of paper, the same type. It didn’t take her long to dig up two more pieces that obviously came from the same document. The pieces fit together perfectly. She was wide awake now, sliding to the edge of her seat.

“Sleeping Beauty has awakened,” Kurt said, looking up from his work. He seemed amused by her sudden infusion of energy. “What have you found?”

She put a finger to her mouth, and her glare said it all:
Keep quiet.
He got the message. He didn’t say another word. He just stared as she went back to the sack and pulled out two more large hand-torn pieces. There was an urgency, a frenzy to her motions. Another piece fit, and she leaned back in her chair, stroked her chin, and just stared at the paper. Then she dug out a small notebook in her desk and flipped madly through the pages. Finally landing on the right page, she held it up against the fragments she had just fished out of the sack. Her eyes flitted from the notebook back to the fragments, comparing the numbers. She couldn’t believe it.

All at once, she was up to her feet, and taking Kurt by the hand, she pulled him out of his chair and dragged him to the doorway. She motioned him to follow her, and they hurried down the hall and down the stairs and outside. Neither of them spoke until they were two blocks from the office, standing outside a coffee shop.

“Okay, so you have me a little scared. What in the world did you find?” Kurt asked.

Annie looked from side to side. She knew she was laying on the theatrics, but she didn’t care. She liked drama.

“I found a document that identified the code number of our murderer. I know who killed Stefan Hansel.”

39

West Berlin
November 13, 1989

Stefan was nearly run down by a man on a bicycle, trying to steer one-handed while lugging three batches of bananas—another Easterner heading home from West Berlin with golden prizes. Bananas had always been impossible to find in the East, and they had become a symbol of scarcity in the GDR.

It had been four days since the borders opened, and for some people, the party continued unabated—although for others it was more like a whirlwind of window-shopping. Over the weekend, Stefan’s parents had gone to West Berlin just to look into store windows and gawk at everything in paradise.

Ducking into Café Mauer, Stefan asked for a table for four—just in case everyone showed up: Peter, Elsa, and Katarina. He looked at his watch. It was nearing eight o’clock. He was nervous but determined to see this through. Something strong, something beyond himself was pushing him to confess with no expectation of forgiveness. No more secrets. He would open up his past, as if this was a border crossing all its own.

Over the years, Stefan had dug up secrets on many people, including Katarina, Peter, and Elsa. So he wanted to assure them that he would never tell another soul a single one of their secrets. If it was biologically possible to put the tainted information in his brain through a cerebral shredder, he would do it. But it wasn’t possible, so this would have to do. Stefan’s confession would be his cleansing—and their assurance.

But would any of them even come? When he called Katarina’s number, Peter sounded angry, and Stefan was afraid he wouldn’t relay the message to her. So he left two other messages on their recorder, in the hopes that Katarina would check their machine. He left several messages with Elsa as well, and one time, someone in her apartment picked up her phone. He heard breathing on the other end of the line, but no one spoke. So he left the message to the ghost on the phone, just in case it was Elsa.

Café Mauer, on the western side, featured a massive white wall, where people were encouraged to scrawl graffiti, as if it was an extension of the real Wall. Stefan found a table near the graffiti-splattered wall, and it appeared that someone had knocked a small hole in it. Probably some drunk who thought it would be amusing to take a hammer to the restaurant wall, in the same way that people were taking hammers to the real Wall.

He ordered a beer and then settled back in his chair and watched people flow in and out of the café. He hoped he would be able to recognize Peter, Elsa, and Katarina when they came in. He had never met Peter in person, but he had seen photos. He didn’t think he would fail to recognize Katarina or Elsa, even aged twenty-some years.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. By this time, the café had filled, and he felt guilty taking up an entire table. So at twenty-five minutes past eight, he took up a spot at the bar, positioned so he could still see people coming and going through the front door.

He ordered a ham-and-cheese sandwich and listened in on random conversations as he continued to wait. He was becoming bored and discouraged when the man to his right suddenly said, “Did you hear the one about the Stasi officer talking to a citizen?”

The setup of a GDR joke made Stefan think immediately of Katarina, and he spun around, only to find that the fellow was not talking to him. He was trying to flirt with a young woman on his other side, but the woman didn’t look very impressed.

“The Stasi officer says to the citizen, ‘How do you judge the current political situation?’ And the citizen says, ‘I think—’ And the Stasi man says, ‘That’s enough! You’re under arrest!’”

The man laughed, but the woman just smiled politely and turned away. Still, the man didn’t give up, spurred on by alcohol-enhanced boldness. “Did you know . . . did you know I was on the train to West Germany? You know, Honecker’s train.”

Stefan smiled, amazed that this guy was using the Cold War as a pickup line.

“I was on the Honecker Express,” the young man repeated, alcohol ratcheting up the volume of his voice quite a few decibels. “Here’s to the Honecker Express!” The drunk tried to clink glasses with the woman, but she was doing her best to ignore him, shielding her glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Stefan, and the drunk whirled around to locate the source of a supportive voice.

“Comrade! To the Honecker Express!” the drunk shouted again, and he had to take careful aim to make sure their glasses clinked.

“I got on board in Prague, and we were sealed in,” he said to Stefan. “We were sealed in like . . .” He searched for just the right words. “Like people sealed in a train.”

“I know of the train. It was Honecker’s idea of punishment, wasn’t it? Had you been trying to escape through Hungary?”

“We had, but when the border into Hungary closed, we were trapped in Prague.”

“I don’t suppose the Czechs liked all those East German refugees camping in their capital, did they?”

“No, so that fool Honecker decided he would punish us by sealing us in a train of shame and shipping us off to West Germany. Some punishment!”

Stefan smiled. “I was in Leipzig, and people were inspired by that train. It helped to light the fuse.”

“You were in Leipzig?” the drunk said, leaning in a little too close. His breath was 100 proof. “What’s your story? You gotta have a story.”

Stefan looked down into his glass and smiled. “Well . . . I’ve been part of the Leipzig protests this year.”

The drunk’s eyes widened, like the lens of a camera. “I knew you had to have a story.” He raised his glass high. “To Leipzig! To Hero City!”

This time, it took two tries for the drunk to clink Stefan’s glass. Then he clamped a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “You’re a good man. You’re a hero.”

Stefan shook his head. “I’m no hero. Not by a long shot.”

The drunk stared at him, stupefied. “You were in the protests, right?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a hero.”

“But it does! You coulda been killed!” The drunk raised his glass and looked around the café, as if expecting everyone to raise their glasses in unison. He went unnoticed. “To heroes!”

Another clink of Stefan’s glass.

“No, no . . . I’ve done too many things . . . I can’t be called a hero,” Stefan insisted.

“Nonsense. I’ve done things too. We’ve all done things. To things!”

Another clink of the glass.

The drunk leaned in even closer. “Have you changed your ways from the things you were doing . . . you know,
the things
?”

Stefan finished off his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose I have.”

“Then you’re a hero! To heroes!”

Stefan clinked his empty glass against the drunk’s. Before the man could find another dozen things to toast to, Stefan dropped his money on the sticky counter, patted the drunk’s shoulder, and bid him good night. He ducked out of Café Mauer, not feeling anything like a hero. He suddenly felt more alone than ever and wished he could be with Lora in Leipzig this night.

Elsa recognized him immediately. She sat on a park bench directly across the street from Café Mauer, and she watched Stefan exit the restaurant at about half past nine o’clock.

Keeping her distance, she tailed him down the street. She had seriously considered going into Café Mauer to talk with him. But she knew that if she talked with him, if she looked into his eyes, she would never go through with her plan. And she had to complete what had been set in motion.

Elsa’s handler told her that Stefan knew
everything
about her. He knew she had been an informer as a student at Humboldt University. He knew she had been planted as a spy in the West, infiltrating the ranks of students digging tunnels in the early days. He even knew that the Stasi intentionally allowed her to escape that day in the cemetery as a way to plant her as a spy in the West. That was why she had been so shocked when they shot at her. After all, she was the one who had alerted the Stasi about the tunnel escape. They weren’t supposed to fire at her, but when it appeared that she was trying to help Stefan escape, one of the Vopos decided to improvise and took a warning shot at her, sending her tumbling into the hole. The fall could’ve killed her, but she limped away with a sprained ankle.

Elsa went on to become a productive informer in the West, working for several handlers in Division X—the Stasi division that targeted the West, particularly West Berlin. Over the years, she had considered turning her back on being an informer, but she didn’t have the courage. She had heard of people being abducted on the streets of West Berlin and shipped off to prison in the East, and she couldn’t take that risk. She would kill herself before she let them put her in another prison.

In the message that Stefan had left on her telephone, he said he wanted to confess his sins to her.
The truth shall set us free.
Easy for him to say. He didn’t have a spouse, he didn’t have a family, he didn’t have a career. Elsa had all of these, and she knew that the truth could only destroy. The truth would tear down everything she had built.

Some days, she wondered if she was losing her mind. She would wake up with an overpowering sense of fear, like an airraid siren going off in her head. She still felt nervous in rooms with closed doors, especially if they didn’t have large windows.

Her husband understood her fears and had the patience of a saint with her. She loved her husband, and she was determined not to lose him. He was her grip on reality. If he ever found out that she had informed on him . . .

Elsa continued to follow Stefan, who had jammed his hands in his pockets and made his way down the dark street. She had become good at tailing people. They had trained her well.

He walked about five blocks before stopping in front of a small Catholic church: St. John’s. He stood and stared at the brown brick edifice. It was a stout church, with two towers flanking its arched entryway. Above the entry was a massive ornate window.

Stefan had found religion, at least according to her handler, and a person who found religion was especially dangerous. He would have no qualms about shining a light on all of his dark places—and on all of
her
dark places as well.

Elsa had tried church for a few months many years ago. But the music was dull, and the pastor went on and on about angels. That was all he seemed to preach about. Guardian angels. In Elsa’s experience, guardian angels were in short supply. The pastor said, “Guardian angels watch our backs,” but the only watchers she experienced were Stasi men. Every few weeks, she would become aware that someone was following her. They purposely allowed her to notice their lurking presence—a friendly reminder that the Stasi was watching, always watching. They weren’t guardian angels, not by a long shot. More like guardian ghouls.

Stefan entered the church. Elsa held back a few minutes before trudging up the short flight of concrete stairs and standing at the door, listening. She turned the handle and eased the door open. But not too far. She tested the door, hoping it didn’t creak too loudly. It didn’t.

She pulled the door open just enough to allow her to slip inside. The church was pitch-black. She stood at the very back, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Suddenly, a tiny spark of fire flared at the other end of the church, next to the altar. Stefan was lighting a votive candle before a statue. She couldn’t make out the statue in the dark, but the light spilled onto its stone feet and across Stefan’s face.

Hanging back in the dark, Elsa silently slid behind a life-sized statue of Mary. From this position, she watched Stefan—or at least his shadow—turn away from the altar and move to one of the pews at the front of the church. He was just a black blotch in a dark church. He knelt.

Elsa loved her time with Stefan the month before she had escaped through the tunnel back in ’62. At the time, she had almost ditched her entire escape plan, just to remain in the East with him. She and Stefan could have made a go of it, but she was terrified.
They
wanted to place her in the West, and she couldn’t say no. The risk of prison was too great, and no man was worth that.

By this time, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she had a better view of Stefan kneeling with his head bowed. Slowly, silently, she slipped her hand into her coat pocket and felt the steel of her gun. She had to do this quickly. Just slip up behind him and put a bullet in his head while he prayed. Wouldn’t she be doing him a favor? Killing him in the middle of prayer might just send him on a direct flight to Paradise, no layovers in Purgatory.

Stefan raised his head and stared up at the arched ceiling with its dark rafters, which resembled the interior of a massive ship that had been flipped upside down. Then his eyes drifted off to the corner, where he spotted an ornate confessional.

When he rose and looked back over his shoulder, Elsa ducked behind the statue. She peeked out from behind Mary’s right hand and saw him approach the confessional and slip into one of the booths, closing the door with a click. That was when she made her move. She noticed that the priest’s side of the confessional could be entered through a thick curtain—a noiseless entryway. She had on soft-soled shoes, so she scurried across the marble floor without a sound. Then she slipped inside the priest’s booth and stood in silence, not quite sure what to expect. Elsa still didn’t like small spaces, and her heart began to race.