Thoughts Are Free Read online

  “So where do we start?”

  “I’m going to go through all these reports again, see if anything stands out or whether it’s all just random violence,” said Laura in a businesslike manner. “Erika’s going to talk to an academic at the Humboldt University about social factors behind the rise in far-right activity.”

  “The other thing we need to check on is whether any more demonstrations have been registered by far-right organisations,” Erika chipped in. “You were there last night, and they’ve already announced another for Sunday. We need to see what they have planned in other places—try to work out whether there’s a pattern to the public appearances. It’s not just the demonstrations and violent crime reports we’re interested in—we think we should be looking at leafleting, information stalls and other public appearances. It might give us an indication of which areas they’ll be concentrating on in the lead up to the referenda.”

  I took one of the piles of files back to my office, but before I made a start I had a few loose ends to tie up.

  Top of my list was to interview an ex-cop. In 1987 he’d been one of the many posted outside the church building when 30 Nazis gatecrashed a concert. He and his colleagues hadn’t lifted a finger to help the punks being beaten up inside. I’d been given the task of going over the paperwork again, seeing if I could find evidence to support rumours that the Volkspolizei and the Stasi had had a hand in events that night. I hadn’t found anything useful in the Stasi archives, and I’d been stonewalled by all the cops I’d interviewed so far.

  It had taken me a while to track down this particular cop because he was no longer a police officer, but was now in the Border Police Service. He was on duty this morning, and I knew where to find him.

  I left the office and got on my bike, cycling over the river to Treptow, then turning onto Puschkin Allee. When I reached the border crossing point there was a short queue. A border guard and his sergeant were watching customs officers open up suitcases and the bulky bags of a small group of pensioners heading West. Even though I kept my distance and couldn’t really hear what was being said I could see that the officials were being polite and patient, the civilians in turn weren’t cowed by the presence of officialdom. They even seemed to be poking fun at the men on duty—the pensioners burst out laughing, while the official checking luggage blushed and carefully closed a suitcase. It was in such minor exchanges that the major changes in our country could be seen. Just four years ago such a scene would have been unimaginable. In those days border crossings were a place of fear and paranoia, subject to continuous surveillance and the arbitrariness of soldiers and state officials. In those days the Wall had been an invisible fact of life, too dreadful to contemplate or acknowledge.

  But after we took to the streets in 1989, after we deposed the Communist Party everything had changed.

  Finally the pensioners moved through the gap in the Wall and I showed the border guard my RS identity card before asking where I could find Corporal Giesler.

  The guard saluted and directed me over to the Section Command Tower, about a hundred metres off to one side. But before I could take back my pass the sergeant stepped forward.

  “You’re the guy who arrested the Minister last year?” he asked, taking my ID off the guard and opening it up to check the name there.

  I nodded, waiting for him to continue. We stood looking at each other for a long moment.

  “I just wanted to say, I admire you, I mean …” the sergeant stuttered, paused, then carried on: “I mean, what you did. Last year.” He held out his hand for me to shake.

  The sergeant’s enthusiasm surprised me. My relations with the security forces had been less than cordial since the events of last autumn. I nodded again, pasting a smile onto my face, and took my pass back, embarrassed, unsure how to react. But the sergeant still had hold of my hand. I looked at him again. He was young. Acne still scarred his reddened face. Looking uncertain in his oversized uniform he was as at least as flustered as I was. More so.

  “Thanks.” I pulled my hand from his grasp and started along the cement pathway towards the watchtower. My admirer kept pace with me, not saying anything, but still watching me.

  “How are things here?” I asked finally, wanting to fill the silence.

  We’d come to a stop where the cement slabs of the border crossing met the cobbles of the road. The outer, West-facing wall was behind us now, built along the bank of the weir channel while the line of the Hinterlandmauer—the Eastern edge of the death-strip—was still a few metres in front of us. That East-facing wall was no longer there, the death-strip now was alive with colourful wagons and trucks.

  The sergeant followed my gaze. “Well, they can be a nuisance.”

  We looked over the jigsaw puzzle of wooden and aluminium-sheet wagons, the kind that were usually to be found on building sites to provide workers with a place to have a cup of coffee or shelter from the rain. They’d been fitted out with wood-burners, kitchens and beds and dragged here by trucks and tractors. Stacks of cut wood were left over from winter, lines of washing, empty beer bottles and toys surrounded raised beds of soil, young leafy salad plants and brassicas peeping out. This was a Wagenburg, an alternative community, an alternative way of living.

  “They jump over the Wall,” the lad in uniform said. “Every time we take a ladder away they put up a new one. They don’t want to show us their identity cards. I don’t understand it—once they climb over the Wall they can’t get any further unless they want to get wet.” He chuckled and gestured at the deep water on the other side of the Wall. “So they come along the bank to cross the bridge—they pass within a couple of metres of us—and then they have to show their papers at the West Berlin checkpoint anyway. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  I nodded in sympathy. The Wall no longer had any power to imprison us—people felt free to live next to it, to talk about it, to joke about it. Even climb over it. The Wall had always been an economic necessity, but a controversial one. Now it was mutating from a buttress for an illegitimate government to a thin line of protection from the greed of capitalists, a modern day customs barrier. Without the Wall the West Berliners and the West Germans would be over here, buying up our food and consumer goods. Our currency was weak, sold on the black market for as much as ten Eastmarks to one Westmark: our struggling economy couldn’t withstand the purchasing power of Westerners buying up our scant stocks. We’d already experienced that, back in November and December of 1989 when the Wall first opened—food shortages throughout East Berlin and along the inner-German border were the result. So we kept the Wall, and we kept the customs checks on the crossing points.

  “You know these people, don’t you? They understand you. Can you talk to them?” he asked me.

  It was an unusual request. A bold one, but one that suited the times. Instead of submitting an official request for ‘administrative co-operation’ that would be lost, found again, delayed then queried as it passed through the bureaucratic channels, he had simply asked me, person to person, citizen to citizen.

  I shook my head: “I don’t know these ones, no.”

  “But you know some other …” he looked again towards the Wagenburg, “people like this, don’t you? You worked with them on that case last year? I read about it in the papers, you were on television, on the news.” He wasn’t going to let me go that easily.

  “I’m here to speak to Corporal Giesler,” I said, changing the subject.

  The sergeant misinterpreted my unease and stiffened. “Jawohl, comrade Captain. Comrade Corporal Giesler is on comms duty. I shall take you to him now.”

  He turned again, ready to march off to the watchtower, but I put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “What’s your name?”

  The sergeant half-turned, unsure whether to stand to attention or not. “Staff Sergeant Müller, comrade Captain.”

  I held out my hand and offered a smile. “How about we drop the formalities? I’m Martin.”

  Müller relaxed
again, he shook my hand. “Rico,” he said as his acne burned.

  Rico took me up to the observation level of the watchtower. Giesler had stood to attention as soon as we appeared through the hatch at the top of the ladder.

  “Nothing to report, comrade Staff Sergeant,” he announced when his superior had fully emerged.

  “At ease, comrade Corporal. The comrade captain from RS wishes to speak to you.” With a nod to me Rico descended down the ladder again.

  Giesler continued to stand behind his desk adorned with telephones, radio sets and banks of dead lights. I looked him over, trying to work out the best way to approach him. He was older than me, still muscular, but his skin was grey and saggy. Pale grey eyes glared at me from beneath fine grey eyebrows and a widow’s peak. I wondered what had made him change his Volkspolizei uniform for that of the Border Police; whether the move had anything to do with the incident I was investigating.

  I decided to try the friendly approach.

  “As you were, comrade Corporal. I shan’t take much of your time. I’m just clearing up some paperwork from the old days, and I wanted to check whether you had anything useful to add.

  Giesler sat down again, his eyes never leaving me.

  I went to the window and looked down at the wagons and the punks below, and started to speak without turning around. “It’s to do with an incident in Prenzlauer Berg on the 17th of October 1987.” Although Giesler was behind me I could see his silhouette reflected in the window before me, but there was no shift, no start of recognition.

  “Does that date mean anything to you?” I turned around to face him again. “It was the night a church building was attacked by rowdy elements. You were there that night, observing comings and goings. I just need a few details clearing up.”

  “I’m sure I don’t remember, comrade Captain. I can only suggest you look at the report I filed at the time.” Giesler was now eyeing the phones—perhaps hoping that one would ring—but beyond that he showed no nervousness.

  “It’s just a minor detail.” I sat down on a chair next to the desk, leaning forward, elbows resting on my thighs. “Did you have orders not to intervene when the fascists attacked the concert-goers?” I asked in a low voice, staring intently at Giesler.

  He gazed blankly back at me, waiting a few moments before answering. “I’ve already said, comrade Captain, that I have no clear recollection of the incident.”

  I stood up and took hold of the pulley that held open the steel hatch at the top of the ladder, paying out the rope and letting the steel door bang down. There wasn’t much space in the watchtower so I was still less than a couple of metres away from Giesler.

  “Comrade Corporal—it’s just you and me now. Nobody can hear-”

  But Giesler had also got up. With just two strides he was out from behind his desk, and standing directly in front of me, the buttons of his uniform blouson grazing my chest.

  “With respect, Captain,” he snarled, “you’d do well to forget about 1987.” He edged closer, trying to push me back. “For some of us the old times are still here.”

  Karo

  “Hi Katrin, it’s me.”

  The buzzer let me in and I went up the tenement stairs. Katrin’s door was ajar when I got there.

  “Karo!” she gave me a hug and dragged me into the kitchen. She flipped a switch on the coffee percolator and we sat down and started chatting.

  “I’ve not seen you for ages! How’s it all going?”

  “Full on! Totally full on! You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been up to!” But I stopped because I could tell something was bothering Katrin. “What’s up?”

  It was about the volunteering she was doing at the AL offices (I tried not to sneer about the fact that Katrin was volunteering at the West Berlin version of the Green party—maybe I did, a little, but she didn’t notice so it was OK). Seems that Annette, Martin’s ex, is really worried about the far-right Republikaner party.

  “Annette was telling me that the AL members with seats on the Senate are worried that they’ll lose them to the Reps. And if the same happens to the FDP then it looks like other parties could go into coalition with the right-wingers.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got the Volkskammer elections coming up in the autumn—it’s looking like the fash are going to get quite a few votes.” It made me really angry to think about this stuff and I got up and started pacing around the kitchen.

  “Is Papa involved in any of this? Is he involved in dealing with the far-right?” Katrin was watching me move around her kitchen, even I could see she was worried. I stopped poking around her tea jars and went back to the table.

  I had to think for a bit, but I didn’t really know what Martin was up to. I shook my head.

  “It’s just that, I dunno. He’s been a bit preoccupied lately. I was wondering whether he was involved in some case, you know, as part of his job. About the Nazis, I mean.”

  “Dunno. Haven’t seem him for a while. But he’s alright, isn’t he?” I thought about it for a bit. “Martin’s always alright.”

  Katrin just shrugged.

  “Look, I tell you what—I’ll keep an eye on him and let you know what’s going on. I’ll go and see him tomorrow, get him to come to a gig with me. A bit of a bop will sort him out!”

  I thought it was a great idea but Katrin didn’t look so sure.

  Martin

  I cycled back to the office, thinking about Giesler. I couldn’t work out whether Giesler was frightened or trying to frighten me. Either way it was clear that I wasn’t going to get any information out of him.

  I decided not to bother with a full report on the interview, I’d just include him in the list of cops who wouldn’t talk to me. That would save some time. In any case I had already decided to try to interview the other side—see if the punks who were at the concert had anything new to say. I’d read the police reports and the samizdat publications of the time, but it seemed possible that the punks would feel more able to speak openly now.

  When I walked into the RS2 offices our secretary, Grit, was waiting for me with a telex print.

  “Can you sign this?”

  I read the message, it had already been initialled by Laura and Erika. It was from the Ministry—we were being told to back off Lichtenberg Kripo, stop asking for information about the mole they had in the fascist scene. I went over to Laura’s office.

  “Do you know what this is about?”

  Laura sat back in her chair, a report dangling from one hand, her glasses perched on top of her head. “You’ve read it haven’t you? Well, you know as much as I do.”

  “But why would they tell us to back off?”

  “Martin, why do you have to make everything complicated? What’s it matter, anyway? They probably just need a few days to sort things out—that’s going to claim all their attention and they don’t want us breathing down their necks. They’ll have their reasons.”

  I signed the chit and gave it back to Grit.

  Once back in my office I spent a few minutes trying to find my To Do list. It turned up under my chair, sandwiched between sheets of expenses claims that I should have filed back in January. I leafed through my notes, trying to decipher the scratched out and annotated lists. Karo’s name was there—ask if Karo knows anyone who was at concert in 1987. But since the Nazi demo last night I was beginning to think I should prioritise current Nazi activities, and not those of six and a half years ago.

  Looking further down the list I realised that Dmitri was overdue a call. He was an officer in the FSK—the agency that had taken over from the KGB since the coup against Gorbachev—and he was the main liaison between the FSK’s Berlin office and the Central Round Table. I was the other side of that equation, representing the GDR’s interests. There was rarely much content to our meetings—most of the administrative complexities of hosting the Group of Russian Forces in Germany were handled by other offices at various levels of the government. Dmitri and I represented a high-level and trusted connection, just i
n case we ever needed it.

  I dialled the number for Dmitri’s office. The phone lines to the Russian Forces’ quarters in Karlshorst were always very crackly, echoes and ghosting voices lingering in the background, as if the listeners had never gone away.

  “Da?”

  “Dmitri Alexandrovich, it’s Martin here.”

  “Martin Ottovich! Always a pleasure to hear from you, my friend! Is it time for us to sup vodka again? So long, such a long time since we last had a chat.”

  Dmitri sounded a little preoccupied; his voice was warm and friendly but his mind was clearly on other matters. I didn’t ask, the old caution was still with me: don’t speak too freely on the phone, and watch what you say to the Russians. I trusted Dmitri, he was a good person and a friendship had grown between us, but I didn’t trust his outfit, neither the FSK nor any of the other remnants of the occupying army.

  “When shall we meet, Martin? No, wait, I will look at my calendar.”

  I could hear shuffling noises and muttering down the receiver, as if Dmitri was having to shift heavy piles of paper around on his desk to discover his diary. Finally he picked up the receiver again.

  “You know, I am glad you call, there is much to talk about … But here, I have my calendar. Next week? Is next week good for you Herr Martin Ottovich?”

  We agreed to meet a week on Wednesday at his office.

  “Martin, we have much to talk about,” Dmitri was repeating himself, which was unusual for him. “I shall tell you all next week, but until then be careful, my friend.”