Stasi Vice Read online

  Stasi Vice

  Max Hertzberg

  www.maxhertzberg.co.uk

  September 1983

  1.

  Königs Wusterhausen

  It was meant to be a simple job. Lean on a few people, get them to shut up. Intimidate neighbours, bribe officials, appeal to the socialist conscience of Party members.

  But clearing up after the boss is never a simple job. Not that I’d ever say so in any official way. But this is just between you and me, and I know I can trust you, don’t I?

  And what are bosses for if not to create work? The boss in question has a fine life, villa in the Botanik. Every morning he gets picked up in a company car and brought to work. Every morning he leaves his fine family behind, two kids, one of each. Blonde hair and blue eyes, you know the kind. Every morning, they stand at the garden gate with the blonde-haired-blue-eyed Mutti and wave their starched white handkerchiefs. Good-bye Papi, as he goes off to secure the socialist future.

  Doesn’t matter how early I arrive, he’ll be behind his desk, checking his watch and flicking specks of nothing off his uniform sleeve.

  Prussian bastard.

  I hear you, exactly the kind of bloke who’s going to play away from home. And not for BFC Dynamo. Play away-games and sooner or later things will get messy, you can bet your wages on that.

  Which is why I was playing cleaning lady for the Boss.

  I entered the Konsum department store at half-past nine. That was my first mistake, right there. I was busy congratulating myself on my timing, the queue of pensioners looking for rarities that might have been delivered by mistake had cleared off and the store was fairly empty. Instead of being smug I should have used my nouse and hightailed it back to the capital for a quick look in the registry.

  First rule of any operation: check the files.

  Normally, before any operational measures begin, a file is opened. Then you make cross-references and end up with more lists, keys, indexes and summaries than are in the Berlin telephone book.

  Normally.

  Problem was, this wasn’t normal. This was my boss telling me to sort out his mess on the sly, and dalli dalli. If I checked the files back at the Centre my search would be logged, and then all you need is some busybody wondering why a grunt from Main Department VI is looking at the files of nobodies from a sandy town on the edge of Berlin. That would have landed me in the shit, and not just with the Boss.

  So I didn’t look through the files. Didn’t check whether anyone on my list was known to the Ministry in any capacity, shape or form. Or any other ministry for that matter. Any Party members with connections in the right places? Any family members or close acquaintances higher up the pecking order than the Boss? Any cross-links, existing files, references, keys or indexes on any of them?

  If I’d had time to go through the registry at my own pace and in my own way, I would have spotted the connections immediately. That would have saved me a good few millimetres of shoe leather and a truck-load of hassle.

  Enough with moaning into my beer. I was telling you about this little operational measure on the side. There I was, standing on the ground floor of the Konsum in Königs Wusterhausen—to call the three tiny floors of this provincial shop a department store stretched my imagination too far—and demanding an audience with Citizen Dittmann. No need to show them the detective’s disc, they made me for the member of the state organs that I was. I was ushered into a poky storeroom with no natural light.

  And there she was, my first operational target. Petite, greying hair tucked under a dark blue paisley headscarf, fingers bent with rheumatism. But her arthritic fingers weren’t stopping her from skimming the consumer goods, taking little cartons of sewing supplies out of the packing cases and putting them in a cardboard box to be handed out to friends later. She was so busy she didn’t even notice me.

  “Needle and thread in short supply again?” I enquired, friendly enough. I find it easier to play good cop, at least until the need arises. Then I’m happy to show my true colours as bastard cop.

  Dittmann nearly jumped out of her skin. While she made a show of wringing her hands she was busy nudging the box of illicit wares further under the counter.

  I flapped the tin disc at her. Just like her colleagues on the shop floor, there was no real need to get the piece of metal out, she already had me pegged. But a little bit of psychological reinforcement goes a long way.

  “Can I help?” She was being polite, wondering whether I’d noticed her little game.

  “Paragraph 173, section 2 of the criminal code. Hoarding of goods,” I helped her out.

  “Is that why you’re here?” She sank into a chair. A handkerchief appeared and she mopped her soft face.

  Obviously it wasn’t why I was here, they’d have sent a bull to lift her for that, if they’d bother at all. But I left her hanging—I’d helped her enough already.

  I asked to see her Ausweis and in return pulled out a mugshot of the Boss’s pretty lady and held it under Dittmann’s nose. “Know her?”

  Dittmann peered at the picture. It was black and white, but you could see the fine featured woman was a blonde, her eyes blue—just the way the Boss liked them. I watched as Dittmann poked around in the pocket of her pinny until she found her glasses. She perched them on the end of her nose then tilted her head so they wouldn’t get in the way of the photograph she was looking at. People do the stupidest things, but I’ve learnt not to rub their noses in it, not when I want something from them.

  “Frau Hofmann!” Dittmann seemed pleased to place the face, maybe she thought if she got full marks I’d let her off.

  “See her much?”

  “Regular customer, always very polite. Saw her just last week-”

  “See her outside of work?”

  “Oh.” Dittmann slid her glasses up her nose and looked at me. The lens distorted her eyes, making them bulbous and shiny. “Not in any kind of trouble, is she?”

  “It is your duty to answer my questions.” The cold stare always does it.

  “Walking in the Tiergarten park last week, perhaps it was the week before. With a gentleman-”

  “This one?” Another mugshot for her to peer at, this time of the Boss. How could he be so sloppy, taking his moll for a hike round the local beauty spot?

  “Quite rude, I greeted them as they went past and if looks could kill-”

  “This concerns the interests of society.” I took the photographs back. “Not to mention your own.”

  Dittmann took her glasses off and gave me a blank look.

  “Citizen Hofmann is of operational interest. Therefore, for political-operational reasons you may not mention to any person that you have seen Citizen Hofmann in the presence of this person, nor that you and I have ever met. Failure to comply would indicate a negative attitude towards our socialist state. Is that clear?”

  Dittmann looked unsure, so I gave her another nudge.

  “Paragraph 173, section 2,” I said.

  I got my notebook out as I left the Konsum and crossed Dittmann off the list. One down, three to go. At this rate I’d have my Boss’s mess sorted by the end of tomorrow. Day after at the latest.

  2.

  Zernsdorf

  You might think my day got off to a bad start when the Boss sent me down to the end of the S-Bahn line to sort out his mess. Actually it didn’t. Give me a choice between pushing paper round the desk all day or keeping my hand in the business of giving folks a hard time, well, I’ll let you work out which one I get up in the morning for.

  When the single carriage train wheezed into Zernsdorf station and I found out I still had a kilometre to hike, that wasn’t a disappointment either. Sure, it didn’t make me smile, might have made me wish I’d brought a company car. But what really wipe
d the grin off my sweaty face was when I rocked up at the People’s Own Works Liqueur Factory Zernsdorf and found out that the nearest liqueur was in a grocery store back in the centre of Königs Wusterhausen. The rattle of crates of lemonade and table water empties being thrown around the yard was the soundtrack to the shakes I was beginning to get.

  “So why is it called a liqueur factory if all you have is limo and Club Cola?”

  I was so distracted by the lack of serious alcohol that I let the porter enter my details into the log book, but soon came to my senses and snatched my clapper board out of her hands before she could get to my roll number. It wasn’t a problem, I’d flashed her one of a small selection of official passes I carry around for the purpose. This one matched the tin disc, today I was a detective in the People’s Police.

  Over at the lorry park a crew of overalls was loading up a flat-bed W50 truck with wooden crates. They took one look at me and the Party badge on my lapel and decided to put their backs into shifting them crates round.

  “Marco Westhäuser?” I called out.

  A fat guy grunted and poked his thumb at the third truck along, the one that was as dirty as washing hanging on the line in Bitterfeld.

  I wiped the licence plate and wrote down the number, kicked the tires a bit and dusted off the toecaps of my boots. No crew in sight, probably in the works canteen loading up on beer and poppy-seed cake. I pulled open the door and put one foot on the wheel to haul myself into the high cab. It stank of sweat and brown-coal dust, so I left the door open while I made myself comfortable in the co-driver’s seat. First thing I looked at was the manifest, neatly attached to a clipboard. There was my guy’s name on the lading bill, along with that of his workmate.

  “Oi! What you doing in my lorry?” It wasn’t a question, not coming from the brick shit-house steaming towards me. It was a demand backed up by implicit threats.

  I stayed in the cab, it gave me the advantage of height if he decided to kick off. I got the disc out and waved it in his face.

  “K,” I said. That one letter is enough, short for Kriminalpolizei. Always makes people stop. While he was digesting that, I waved the clipboard at him.

  “Leaving paperwork in an unattended cab? Serious.”

  The brick shit-house shrank back down to human size and his fists unrolled into hands the same size as the mirrors on his lorry. I decided it was safe enough to leave the cab door open. I told the guy to flash me his works pass. Westhäuser, Marco. It was my man.

  “Where’s your mate?”

  “Canteen.” Westhäuser hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Stocking up on beer and poppy-seed cake, just like I told you.

  “Right, Citizen Westhäuser. You and me are going to have a chat. Get up in the driver’s seat.” I watched him swing up into the cab with practised ease, then told him to give me the keys.

  Before I let myself relax, I gave Westhäuser the up and down, checking for signs of aggression. He was pinned behind a driving wheel the size of the kind of cake a Bigwig would organise for his daughter’s wedding. We also had the hump of the engine between us, so I considered myself safe enough.

  “This your neighbour?” I asked, poking the mugshot of Hofmann at him.

  “Hot lady,” He made to take the photo, his lips pursed into a kiss.

  “Maybe. You know the bimbo or not?”

  Westhäuser put his hands back where they belonged and nodded.

  “Seen her around lately?”

  “Sure. She lives in the house opposite. Never miss wash day, see her in the garden, hanging out her panties.”

  Classy. But now down to business. “Enough of the dirty talk already. You seen her with anyone else. A man?”

  “Of course. Her and the old man put their best threads on for church. Every Sunday. Stockings-”

  I didn’t need to hear about her Sunday stockings, so I waved a hand in his face. Shut it.

  “What about away from home. Ever bumped into her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think about it.”

  So Westhäuser thought about it. I could see the thoughts passing through like those toy trains the Pioneer kids run round that loop in the Wuhlheide park.

  “Nope,” was all he came up with after he’d let the thoughts go round a few more times.

  His trains weren’t on the fast track, which gave me a bit of a problem. The Boss’s orders were to find this guy and turn him off. His crime? He’d clocked the Boss and his girlfriend on a romantic day out at a nearby lake. The Boss had probably been looking forward to a bit of groping in the undergrowth that day, but the girlfriend had other ideas. She’d insisted on going shopping in the village Kaufhalle, just in case they had anything she couldn’t get here in Zernsdorf or in Königs Wusterhausen. But as soon as they rocked up at the shop, her next door neighbour comes along with a wagon-load of drinks.

  Question: was Westhäuser so slow on the uptake that he hadn’t noticed his hot neighbour queueing up for a shopping trolley? Or had he just forgotten? If he’d not noticed then the last the thing I wanted to do was to plant the idea that he might have seen her. But if he’d just forgotten there was a danger he might remember again later.

  “You deliver to Wolzig?” I asked him.

  “Twice a week, Wednesday and Friday,” he replied. “Kablow, Bindow, Friedersdorf, Wolzig, Blossig …” he recited the route plan, quick as you like.

  “What about last Wednesday?”

  That had him thinking. He started counting on his fingers, then looked up, his face bright and proud. “Day off.”

  Turns out his workmate and another colleague did the run that day. This easy job was already starting to turn into something messy. No surprises there. In my line of work, you try to clean up the mess left behind by a superior officer then you’ve got to be prepared to deal with an even bigger mess. Shit flows downwards and outwards, as we say in the trade.

  I noted down the names of his co-driver and the colleague who’d stood in that day, then moseyed on over to the administration building. I flashed my K disc, told them to bring me the rosters for the last two months and to show me to the room where they kept the cadre files. The secretary had to break the wax seal on the door to the archive, and once the opening had been documented I booted him out.

  I checked through the rosters until I found last week’s. There they were, Route B, heading through the eastern edges of KW county, fourth stop: Wolzig.

  Westhäuser wasn’t on the list for that day.

  The names of the two men who had worked the route tallied with what Westhäuser had told me, so I copied out their home addresses and went and got a local map from the secretary. Neither of the men lived anywhere near the Boss’s girl, no obvious reason they’d know her.

  I put the cadre files back on their shelves and took the sheaf of rosters back to the secretary.

  “Thanks,” I threw over my shoulder as I left.

  “No problem. You’re the second person this week who’s wanted to have a look.”

  I didn’t react, just kept on walking until I got to the railway station.

  3.

  Königs Wusterhausen

  My next stop was back in Königs Wusterhausen town: Kirchplatz, number 17. Having a bit of a jaw with the local goons was my fig leaf for coming all this way. Or as the Boss would have it: operational conspiration by means of receiving operational reports on the political-operational situation in KW county. Right now, the local Stasi would be bricking it, wondering why an officer from the capital was swinging by at short notice. They’d be checking files, trying to guess exactly which fuck-up had attracted the attention of Berlin. They weren’t to know that my job was actually to keep an eye on Western tourists, and there was little call for me to be here. Far as I was concerned, any tourist that made it to this sand pit deserved anything and everything they got from the locals.

  After my warm up with Citizens Dittmann and Westhäuser I was in the mood to put some unnecessary heat on the local comrades
at the County Office. I flashed my MfS card at the uniform behind the glass and was on my way to the stairs when she piped up.

  “Message for you, Comrade Second Lieutenant.” She handed over a flimsy.

  I gave the message the once over on my way up the stairs, then turned right round and headed for the train station. Playing with the comrades would have to wait. I was needed in Berlin.

  The S-Bahn got crowded as we headed into Berlin, but nobody sat next to me. The citizens of this Republic recognise us trench coats a mile off. They smell the stink that comes off us.

  I got off at Schöneweide and hiked to the Clubhouse. Most people are surprised when they hear that we don’t have luxury offices at Berlin Centre in Lichtenberg, but here we are, along with a couple of other departments, in a network of sooty-bricked buildings, built as square and regular as a barracks and sandwiched between Schnellerstrasse and the river. I call it the Clubhouse, because I like to think we have a bit more independence, out here in Treptow.

  I showed the guard my clapper board. I do it every day, and every day he examines my pass as if he’s never seen it or me before. Finally he saluted and let me in through the gate, and I went to find the Officer of the Day, wanting to know what was so big that I had to be pulled off doing the Boss’s graft. Turns out we’re a goon short at the Palasthotel in the centre of town. So that was me along with my wee bottle of schnapps doing grunt work the whole afternoon, listening to microphones and watching video cameras of Westerners fucking.

  Taking notes, photographs and video footage for Kompromat files is slow, boring work. You’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it a million times. Captains of industry and greedy politicians come over from the West, keen to make deals and bolster reputations. Nine times out of ten they allow themselves to be dragged into the sack by one of the more willing members (mostly female, but we had a few boys in the mix, too) of our workers’ and peasants’ state.