Stasi Child (21 page)

‘We need something else to go on, Karin. We need another lead.’

‘What about if a girl
has
gone missing from Rügen. But it simply hasn’t been reported, so it doesn’t appear in these files?’

Tilsner rubbed his chin, which was now covered in several days’ stubble. ‘I don’t see how that’s possible. Surely the authorities would find out?’

Müller nodded. ‘But it’s not Berlin, is it? Say it was some remote farm. Maybe a domestic fight. Maybe a single parent, a farmer with a rebellious teenager. He goes loopy, strangles the girl in a rage, dumps her body by the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier in Berlin –’

‘– and then goes to the trouble of shooting her in the back after she’s dead, throws on a bucket of animal blood, and all to try to make out she’s been shot from the West? And hires a limo in the West to try to point the finger at the authorities? And what about the rapes?’ Tilsner shook his head. ‘Sorry, that wouldn’t make any sense at all.’

They fell silent. Müller knew he was right. She picked up another of the files and began to leaf through it. She couldn’t concentrate and instead began to worry about Gottfried, before the motion of the train and Schmidt’s rhythmic snoring started sending her to sleep too.

Müller slept virtually the entire remainder of the journey, and had to be woken by Tilsner just before Stralsund Hauptbahnhof and their change of train to Rügen, the Republic’s largest island. As the new train crossed the Strelasund strait on the rail bridge from the mainland, Müller’s initial impressions were disappointing. She was expecting a rural landscape, but the view was industrial – like many parts of the Republic. Only when they got further onto the island could she see the gently rolling landscape and farms that she’d imagined from her only previous visit to the Ostsee coast – the countryside she remembered from her honeymoon spent camping amongst the dunes of Prerow, further to the west. She remembered lusting over Gottfried’s toned and tanned body. He didn’t look like that now. The memory triggered an abrupt resurgence of guilt, and fear for her husband. Why was she thinking ill of him in his current predicament? She should instead be trying everything she could to help him. He’d been stupid getting involved with the church group, but he wasn’t a bad man and the memories of their honeymoon reminded her that they had loved each other. In the early days, the early years, of the marriage.

At Bergen auf Rügen station they were collected by a
Volkspolizei
officer and taken to the local People’s Police headquarters to be briefed on the arrangements that Jäger had made for them in advance.

They were led into a room at the back of the police station. ‘
Oberst
Drescher will be with you in a moment, Comrade Müller,’ said the policeman, and left the three Berlin officers alone.

‘Has Jäger sorted accommodation?’ asked Tilsner.

‘As far as I know, yes,’ said Müller. ‘That’s what it said in his note with the tickets. They should be providing us with a car too.’

‘Hmm. No doubt with one of their goons to accompany us everywhere.’

As Tilsner finished speaking, a side door opened, and in strode an officer in a police colonel’s uniform. The three Berlin officers made to stand, but the
Oberst
waved them to remain seated.

‘This is a pleasure, Comrade Müller.
Oberst
Marcus Drescher, of the Rügen People’s Police. And these officers are –?’

Müller introduced Tilsner and Schmidt, and then Drescher urged them to move their chairs from the side of the room to a central desk. ‘We’ve been told by the Ministry for State Security in Berlin to provide you with accommodation and transport, and that’s something we’re glad to help with. But I read about the case you’re working on in
Neues Deutschland
. I thought the girl was supposed to have escaped from the West into the East?’ The colonel was smirking slightly as he asked the question. ‘It would appear now that that’s perhaps not the case,’ he continued. ‘Are you now thinking the girl is from Rügen itself?’

‘Possibly,’ said Müller. ‘Certain evidence discovered at the scene points to that, but it’s just one line of inquiry we’re following. However, it seems as though there are no girls missing from Rügen who match the dead girl’s profile.’

‘You’ve checked all the files?’ asked Drescher.

‘Yes,’ interrupted Tilsner. ‘I performed that fascinating task.’ Müller frowned at his flippancy.

‘What I was wondering,’ asked Müller, ‘is whether there might be anything short of a formal missing person’s report that might be worth following up? You know the sort of thing: a neighbour gets suspicious about a family and reports them, or the police are called out to a domestic disturbance, or a girl’s been beaten up or mistreated.’ Müller already knew from Jäger that there was
something
worth following up. But she held that back initially. She wanted to test how open with his help and information the Rügen People’s Police colonel was prepared to be.

Drescher shuffled forward, pulling his chair closer to the table. ‘The trouble is that not all of those sorts of reports would come to us. Some would go to the local office of the Ministry for State Security, but then they would send them to Berlin, and no doubt your
Oberstleutnant
Jäger would have access to them.’

Müller nodded. It didn’t look like Drescher was going to volunteer very much without further prodding. ‘The Ministry has indeed informed us about one incident that was referred to them, a complaint about a teenage girl. We’d like to see any details on that, and anything else that may be relevant.’ She watched Drescher’s face for a hint of reaction. But he appeared as though he had nothing to hide.

‘Of course, of course. I will get one of my officers to bring you the files. Off the top of my head I don’t know about that incident, but the details should have been noted. You can go through them here, and then we will show you the car we’re providing for you and give you directions to your accommodation. We’ve found you a place in one of the coastal resorts. I thought you’d prefer that to staying here in Bergen. It will be more comfortable for you, and more of a change from Berlin.’

The files were arranged month by month. They decided to look through a year’s worth of entries initially. Müller took March to June of the previous year; Tilsner July to October; Schmidt started on the ones from November to the current month.

Müller leafed through the pages, quickly discarding irrelevant entries. Theft of a car. Theft of some wood. Someone who wouldn’t repair their smallholding’s fences so sheep kept escaping. A fight in a pub in Bergen. A fire which someone claimed had been started deliberately by a tenant to try to secure better accommodation.

‘There’s nothing here,’ she complained. ‘What about you two?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary in mine,’ said Schmidt.

‘Ha! This is a good one,’ said Tilsner. He ran his finger under the words of the report, from left to right. ‘Frau Probst of Am Hafen street in Gager rang up the People’s Police station in Göhren complaining about children fishing from the pier. She said this was an anti-socialist enterprise and the police should either stop them or collectivise the activity.’

Müller sniggered. ‘What was the recommendation?’

‘No action required,’ said Tilsner.

Müller was now on her final file, for June. The words ‘no action required’ drew her eyes to a similar recommendation in her file. She read through it. This was more promising. Tilsner noticed her rhythmic page-turning had paused.

‘Have you got something, boss?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘Maybe. It sounds like this could be the incident Jäger claims was referred to the Stasi. Citizen Baumgartner, manager of the state campsite in Sellin, attended the local police station to file a complaint after being denied access to her granddaughter. She says her granddaughter, Irma Behrendt, was injured in a fall at the closed
Jugendwerkhof
Prora Ost in May last year.’ Müller shuddered inwardly at the name of the reform school. It was the one at which Gottfried had taught. Presumably just a coincidence. He hadn’t mentioned a girl being hurt in a fall. She hoped the other two didn’t notice her reaction – she didn’t want Tilsner to know about Gottfried’s stint there. She turned her attention back to the entry in the file: ‘She was allowed to visit the girl in the youth workhouse when she was in the sanatorium, which was unusual, and she was very grateful. However, she was denied a follow-up visit.’

Tilsner turned the sides of his mouth down. ‘It doesn’t seem to amount to much, boss. What is a
closed
youth workhouse, anyway?’

‘They’re usually for the more problematic or rebellious teenagers, or those who’ve committed more serious offences. This and Torgau are the only “closed” ones – it just means the pupils are locked up there.’

‘For what sort of offences? Running away from home?’ suggested Schmidt.

‘I think more serious than that, Jonas; maybe running away from a less strict children’s home . . . that sort of thing.’

‘What was the recommendation?’ asked Tilsner.

‘No further action,’ said Müller, looking at the bottom of the page. ‘That’s why I noticed it. It’s like your child fishermen. So perhaps this isn’t the one Jäger was talking about.’

‘I don’t know why he didn’t just give us all the information himself. Why do we have to scratch around to find it all?’ Tilsner looked over her shoulder. ‘Hang on, it says, “please turn over”.’

Müller hadn’t noticed this at first. She turned the page. There was an addendum from
Oberst
Drescher. Müller read it out. ‘He’s written: “
Suggest we refer this complaint to Ministry for State Security
”.’ She closed the file and turned to Tilsner.

‘So it
is
the one Jäger seemed to imply was suspicious, although this doesn’t actually say
why
a referral to the Stasi was necessary.’

Tilsner nodded. ‘I think we need to pay Citizen Baumgartner a visit.’

30

Eight months earlier (June 1974).

Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost.

We begin our evening shift in the packing room at half past six. Everyone else who worked on drilling or cutting shifts is being allowed to watch the big game in the common room. Even though I hate what my country has done to me, what it’s
doing
to me, I still want us to win. That would be such a big story and one in the eye for the Westlers. Ha! But tonight my thoughts are not really on the game.

We get to the workbench. I’ve got Beate to my left and Maria Bauer to my right. To Beate’s left is Mathias. Every now and then I see them making puppy eyes at each other. I wonder if I should have let him in on our plan. Maybe a boy’s strength would have been useful, but trying to get three of us out at the same time would be too dangerous. When I’d taken Beate aside in the communal toilets to explain it to her, she had looked scared enough. I know she is as desperate as I am to escape, even though it will mean leaving her boyfriend behind.

Then I look down at the packing materials and components and realise something is wrong. Horribly wrong. These are not double beds! It’s kitchen cupboards again. Smaller boxes, smaller components. I look to my right. Bauer’s are the same. To my left, though, Beate has the double bed kit we were expecting. And Mathias, too. To the other side of Mathias, an empty workstation.

I feel my skin tingling as sweat forms.
Don’t panic
, I tell myself.

I put my hand up.

‘Yes, Irma,’ sighs Frau Schettler.

‘Frau Schettler. We’ve got the wrong things to pack here. We’ve got the kitchen cabinets instead of beds.’

‘Don’t complain, Irma,’ she says. ‘Just get on with it.’

I rack my brain; I need to come up with an idea before the end of the shift. Turning my head to Beate, I wonder what she is thinking. There’s a scared look on her face.

I work quickly. Box after box, ahead of target, just hoping that if I finish the kitchen cabinets, then I can ask to do more on the empty workstation, which I’ve seen also has double-bed parts waiting to be packed. But as I finish one cabinet, more kitchen components are wheeled to my desk in a never-ending cycle.

With less than half of the foreshortened evening shift to go, I make a last desperate throw of the dice. First I look left and right to make sure neither Mathias nor Bauer is looking. Then I run my hand under the wooden lip of the workbench, to check the chocolate bars and Vita Cola bottles we saved from weeks and weeks of pocket money are still safely taped underneath. I gently feel their shapes.

Then I raise my hand again.

‘Can I go to the toilet, Frau Schettler, please?’

She purses her mouth, and breathes out slowly and ostentatiously. ‘OK, Irma, but no sneaking off to the common room to see the match.’

‘No, Frau Schettler, I promise.’

When I return, instead of going into the workstations from Maria Bauer’s end, I enter at the empty end, next to Mathias. I move past him, between him and Beate, and then begin to whisper.

‘Mathias. Move along one to your left. I need to be here.’

‘Why? I want to be next to Beate.’

‘Please, Mathias,’ I hiss, hoping Schettler won’t see the exchange and come over. ‘I’ll give you all my pocket money for this week.’

‘All of it?’ he asks, eyebrows raised.

‘All of it,’ I repeat. Little does he know I won’t even be around to receive it. He shrugs and moves across. I see Bauer taking an interest, so I put my finger to my lips in the hope she won’t give the game away. I can’t believe it when she smiles back. But since my fall she has been friendlier to both Beate and myself.

With half an hour to go, I gently kick Beate’s shin. That’s our prearranged sign. I just hope she won’t chicken out.

She raises her hand. ‘Frau Schettler. I’ve finished. May I go and watch the game now?’

‘Yes, Beate, you may.’

She makes to move off, but once Schettler has dropped her gaze back to her book, Beate ducks down under the workbench. There is a half-finished bed package that we stowed under there earlier in the shift. Maria sees it, Mathias sees it. I urge them both to keep quiet with my finger to my lips. Maria nods slightly, but Mathias is frowning.