Stasi Child (7 page)

She stopped the thought, and hung back as Tilsner rang the entryphone buzzer. He jabbed on the button repeatedly, shouting into the mouthpiece to no avail.

He turned towards Müller and shrugged in exasperation, then tried pulling on the locked front door.

‘A few months old but knackered already.’

Just then, above the construction din from the opposite block, Müller simultaneously heard and felt footsteps on the wooden duckboard behind her. An elderly lady approached – weighed down by shopping bags – the timber slats wobbling under her shoes. The woman pushed away wisps of pure white hair from her lined and leathered forehead, tucking them under the red-and-white polka-dot scarf that was wrapped tightly round her head.

‘Are you from the neighbourhood committee?’ she asked Müller. ‘This is what I was talking about.’ The woman gestured at the muddy mess underfoot. ‘It’s no good building us new apartments but not sorting out the roads and footpaths. If I fell off, I’d probably drown in that mud. Still, at least you’re here now.’

Müller withdrew her
Kripo
identification and showed it to the woman. ‘
Oberleutnant
Müller.
Kriminalpolizei
Mitte. We need to get into this apartment block. Do you live here? The entry system doesn’t seem to be working.’ Müller pointed to where Tilsner was still pulling at the door and jabbing buttons at random.

‘Nothing works properly here,’ said the woman. ‘That’s what I said in my written complaint. I can let you in, but will you try to make sure they do something about it in return?’

‘It’s not the job of the criminal police to respond to petitions, I’m afraid, Citizen –’

‘Keppler. The name’s Keppler.’ She shuffled towards the door with her bags, placed them down on the muddied wooden boards and then fumbled in her pocket for the door key. ‘Who is it you’re looking for anyway, dear?’

‘The Eisenberg family. Flat 412.’

‘Ah yes. Same floor as me.’

‘You know them, then?’ asked Müller.

‘I do. And I could give you some interesting information.’

Müller eyeballed the woman with what she hoped was her best stern expression. ‘Then you should. Withholding information from the People’s Police –’

‘. . . is a very serious matter. I know that, officer. I hope, in return, you might mention the terrible state of the footpaths.’ She waited for some response from Müller, but the detective continued to fix her with a glare. Eventually the woman continued without any assurance in return. ‘Something fishy is going on there if you ask me. She’s kept herself very private since her daughter disappeared, and her husband . . . well you probably know all about him anyway. But she’ll be in, there’s that at least. She never goes out these days.’

‘And what about Silke, the daughter?’

‘Well they’ve reported her missing, haven’t they? Look, posters everywhere.’ The woman gestured with her eyes to the wall of the lobby, and Müller saw the exact same photo from the file, this time as the centrepiece of a missing person’s poster, offering a 1,000-mark reward. ‘They’re making out she’s been abducted or something, but it’s obvious where she’s gone.’

‘Where?’ asked Tilsner.

‘Where do they all go? To the West, of course. Watch all their western TV programmes and get silly ideas. She was always a bad one.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Müller.

The woman leant down to pick up her shopping bags. ‘I’ll tell you on the way up,’ she said. ‘Can your young man give me a hand with these? There’s no point him pressing those buttons, because the lift doesn’t work either.’

The three of them laboriously climbed the four floors, with Tilsner taking both her shopping bags. On the way, in between regular stops to get her breath back, Frau Keppler extolled her theory that Silke Eisenberg had been mixing with the wrong sorts. Having sex with boys. Then men. And then with money changing hands. Frau Keppler’s view was that she’d simply crossed the Wall to earn more money in the West’s lucrative red-light districts. She divulged the information in an ever-quieter voice. By the time they were at the fourth level she was virtually whispering into Müller’s ear, between regular rasping intakes of air.

‘You do realise what you’re alleging, Citizen Keppler?
Republikflucht
is a very serious crime,’ said Müller, matching the elderly woman’s whisper. ‘
Republikflucht
and alleged prostitution.’

The woman gestured with her eyes to the door to apartment 412. ‘You’ll see, dear,’ she whispered. Tilsner handed her the shopping bags. ‘Thank you, young man,’ she said, this time at full volume.

As Frau Keppler retreated down the corridor towards her own flat, humming a tune as she went, Müller rang the Eisenbergs’ bell.

The door opened a few centimetres, and half of a woman’s face appeared, bisected by a security chain which prevented the door opening fully. ‘Who is it?’

Müller held up her
Kripo
ID. ‘
Kriminalpolizei
. We’re here about Silke.’

The woman made no initial move to undo the chain or open the door further. ‘What about Silke? She’s not here.’

Müller sighed. ‘We know that, Citizen Eisenberg, but we may have some information about her. Could you let us in, please? This is a criminal investigation.’

Now it was the woman’s turn to sigh. A strange reaction, thought Müller, unless what the old woman had alleged was true. The chain jangled as Frau Eisenberg freed it, and Müller and Tilsner stepped into the brightly painted hallway of the flat. The woman looked out of place amongst its neatness. Mousy hair, unwashed greasy housecoat and, more importantly, a look in her eyes that didn’t suggest she was expecting to receive some bad news about her daughter.

Müller held out her hand. ‘
Oberleutnant
Müller,
Kriminalpolizei
Mitte. And this is
Unterleutnant
Tilsner.’

The woman wiped her hand on the back of her housecoat, before accepting Müller’s handshake. ‘Marietta Eisenberg. I’m Silke’s mother.’

‘And where’s her dad?’ asked Tilsner.

The woman snorted. ‘You should know more about that than me.’

‘What do you mean, Frau Eisenberg?’ asked Müller.

‘I mean I don’t know where he is. He was arrested three months ago, just before Silke went missing, but I don’t know where he’s been taken. You lot won’t tell me anything.’

Müller looked quizzically at Tilsner. He shrugged. ‘We don’t know anything about that, Citizen Eisenberg,’ she said. ‘And if he’d been arrested by the
Volkspolizei
we
would
know, I can assure you.’

‘It wasn’t the police who took him. It was the Stasi.’ Müller frowned. Perhaps they should have checked in with Jäger before coming here.

‘Well then, I’m sure they had good reason.’ It was a little cruel, but Marietta Eisenberg had rubbed her up the wrong way. ‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to your husband. But we’re here to talk about Silke – can we sit down?’

Silke’s mother ushered the two detectives into the lounge. Müller was impressed as she took in the decor. The woman’s daywear might have been dirty, but her apartment was spotless – and full of the latest gadgets. A telephone, television, expensive-looking parquet flooring and a tasteful range of fitted wood-veneer cupboards and bookshelves. It was how Müller imagined a flat in West Berlin might be furnished.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Frau Eisenberg. ‘How does a family whose husband has been arrested by the Stasi afford something like this?’

‘It
is
a lovely flat,’ said Müller, swallowing her curiosity, ‘but it’s no concern of mine. Shall we sit?’ She gestured to the beige corduroy sofa. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tilsner in the kitchen, riffling through cupboards and drawers.

Eisenberg kept darting glances towards Müller’s deputy. ‘Does he have authorisation for that? For going through my things?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry about
Unterleutnant
Tilsner,’ said Müller. ‘The fact we’re from the
Kripo
is the only authorisation we need, Frau Eisenberg.’ Then Müller turned more conciliatory, and laid her hand on top of Eisenberg’s. ‘We simply need to find out as much as we can about Silke. You see, a girl has been found.’ Müller studied the woman’s face, watching for her reactions. There was apprehension, perhaps fear – but no real surprise.

‘Really?’

Müller nodded, but kept her hand clasped to Eisenberg’s. ‘But it may not be good news, I’m afraid.’ This was the bit Müller hated: telling a parent that the police believed their child was dead. ‘A girl’s
body
has been found.’

Eisenberg stared at her in apparent disbelief. At the same time, Müller was aware of Tilsner now having moved out of the kitchen and the lounge, and towards the bedrooms. She didn’t think Frau Eisenberg, in her distressed state, had noticed.

‘We’re not sure it’s Silke. For your sake, I hope it’s not. But we need you to look at a photograph to see if it is her. Can you do that for me?’

Marietta Eisenberg looked crushed. Her husband in some unknown Stasi jail. And now her daughter, having been missing for months, was possibly dead. ‘Where was the girl’s body discovered?’

‘In the Hauptstadt. In Mitte.’

‘The Hauptstadt?’ asked Eisenberg. ‘In the East?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But –’ The words died in Eisenberg’s mouth.

‘But what, Citizen Eisenberg? Is there something you want to tell me?’

‘N-n-no. I . . . I . . . it’s just –’

‘What?’

Frau Eisenberg held her head in her hands and stared at the floor. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘Nothing.’

Müller started to pull the photograph of the girl from her pocket, when she heard a shout from inside the flat.

‘Boss!’ screamed Tilsner. ‘Come here, now.’

Müller jumped up from the sofa and hurried in the direction of her deputy’s voice. It was obviously a girl’s bedroom. Pink everywhere. With posters of western rock groups and pop stars on the wall. Müller recognised Mick Jagger with his pouting lips, David Bowie with his orange hair. On another wall, Free German Youth and Pioneer certificates and posters, from earlier years when Silke’s aspirations had apparently followed the party diktats for model socialist children.

Tilsner was at the girl’s bed, the drawer of the bedside cabinet open. He held a letter in his hand. ‘The mother should have hidden this a bit better. Putting it in the girl’s own drawer probably wasn’t the most sensible move.’ He passed the letter, envelope and enclosed instant-camera photo over to Müller. Müller looked at the photo first. It was colour, something hard to come by in the Republic. But what was interesting was it was a self-shot photo of Silke in front of the main entrance of the KaDeWe department store in West Berlin. She looked at the western postmark on the envelope. From just three days earlier – after the murdered girl’s body had been found. She raised her eyes to Tilsner’s.

‘So she’s in the West. And alive. Our body by the Wall is not Silke Eisenberg.’

‘No, boss. Not unless someone else posted it after she was killed. And while that’s possible, it seems unlikely. So we’re no further on.’

They heard sobbing behind them, and both turned. Standing there in the doorway, Marietta Eisenberg looked both upset and alarmed. As well she might, thought Müller. Her daughter may not be dead, but she was guilty of
Republikflucht
. And if Marietta Eisenberg had helped her daughter to flee to West Berlin, then it wouldn’t merely be her husband enjoying the hospitality of a Stasi jail.

8

Day Five.

Prenzlauer Berg, East Berlin.

Gottfried Müller knew that he was breaking a promise to his wife, but justified it by reminding himself that she’d broken an even more important pledge: her marriage vows.

Each of Gottfried’s strides up Schönhauser Allee was more like a stamp of frustration. He could have caught the U-bahn but he needed the air and the anonymity of the street, rather than being glowered at by some matron across an underground train carriage.

Gottfried could feel his glasses slipping down his nose as he strode on. He pushed them back into place, and then waited at the red pedestrian
Ampelmann
sign outside Dimitroffstrasse U-bahn station; Wartburgs, Trabants and Ladas poured more of their fumes into the choking night-time smog. Since he’d come back from Rügen everything had been a hundred times worse than before he went. At first he’d been quite keen on the idea of a few months by the Baltic coast in the reform school. That was until he’d actually seen the conditions. But even there, he’d felt calmer, as though he could actually make a difference, even if it was just a question of trying to cheer up the children and show them some kindness.

Gottfried decided to walk up Pappelallee – it would be quieter. He needed to calm down before he reached the church. Saturday’s argument with Karin still rankled. That she’d chosen to stay out all night rankled even more. He could tell she was lying, so he in turn felt no guilt coming here now. All previous bets were off.

With his head bowed, he almost failed to spot an elderly woman weaving her way through the patches of snow on the pavement. She stumbled, and he reached out to hold her and prevent her falling, thinking how frail and light she felt – and realising that the left arm of her coat was empty, just fabric hanging down limply. The woman nodded her thanks and carried on her way, but Gottfried stopped a moment. It was a timely reminder there were people worse off than him. He watched the woman’s back as she shuffled off, the coat arm flapping as she went. Was she too old for a prosthesis? Or was it her badge of honour? Older citizens with missing limbs from war wounds or bombing injuries had been a common sight when he was growing up in Berlin. That and the huge number of angry single women who’d fly off the handle at the slightest schoolboy provocation. Women widowed and aged before their time by the ravages of war.

He glanced at his watch, pulled his coat up around his neck and speeded up his strides. If possible, he wanted to be a few minutes early for the meeting. Pastor Grosinski might be able to offer some useful advice on how to avoid the collapse of a marriage. Although perhaps he and Karin would just be better off letting nature take its course.