“Who is in charge of the investigation?”
“Comrade Colonel Karl Scharf.”
Thorwald relaxed, loosening his shoulders as he looked over at Grossmann. “Scharf is good. He’ll get the bastard.”
“How do you know?” Grossmann countered.
“Because Scharf is relentless. I’ve heard about him. He’ll succeed. Whatever the cost, he succeeds.”
Hans arrived at his hotel in Binz just as the sun was setting. It was a small bed-and-breakfast affair on a wooded hill just above the beach. The place was nearly empty; it was off-season, only the first weekend in April. The weather had been so cold and cloudy that even the spring vacationers stayed away. When Hans checked into his room, he was surprised to see Anna had not yet arrived. He waited there until nine o’clock, then walked down to the local pub. Hans found he had no stomach to eat or drink, so after half an hour he made his way back to the hotel. Anna had still not arrived by eleven. Hans turned an easy chair to the seaside view of his room. He looked out the window at the reflection of the moon in the waves, waiting past one o’clock. Gradually, Hans fell asleep.
Hans had a strange and fitful dream. He was at the border, at night, with heavy fog lying over the death strip between East and West Germany. He saw and heard a frenzy of action: searchlights piercing through the fog, the blaring of alarm sirens, a shrill scream, the flash of a gun, the barking of watch dogs, the shouts of the damned. Hans stirred in his sleep, but he did not waken.
This dream was no strange figment of imagination, but fragments of an actual memory, long buried in his past. It was August 1974, just after Hans had received his commission as an officer. Hans was stationed in his first post along the southern inner-German border. Joining him there was another graduate of his officers’ training class, Friedrich Stoller. Friedrich and Hans had become friends during their training, a genuine friendship that was rare for Hans. They were the best swimmers in their class, and a healthy competition raged between the two in the pool. Hans won more freestyle races, but always by a narrow margin.
Once Friedrich challenged Hans to a boxing match. The two men fought five full rounds. Bruised and exhausted, the match was declared a draw. When the two unexpectedly had to go on a ten-mile march the next day in full gear, the error of their full-blown bout was clear to them. Every muscle was strained in agony, though the drill sergeant continued to push them on, not letting the two men with bruised faces fall behind. He assumed they had engaged in a sore fistfight, and was determined to drill more discipline into these ragged soldiers. That episode, with the shared experience of sheer pain, bonded their friendship fast. Eventually, they would laugh about the experience, but they swore from then on to keep their competition to the pool.
After graduation, Hans and Friedrich were surprised to receive the same posting to Thuringia; usually friends in the Border Troops were separated to prevent any risk of collusion to escape. Hans and Friedrich were the exception. They both had outstanding marks on their tests and were destined to excel. Their superiors saw a bright future for these new officers.
Yet Hans and Friedrich’s friendship would come crashing down on that fateful night in August 1974. A cool and damp cloud of heavy fog shrouded the border defenses. It seemed otherworldly, especially in contrast to the warmth of that summer’s bright days. The death strip was heavily illuminated by lights, but on this night, the fog only served to diffuse their glow into a haze, making it difficult to spot anyone approaching the border. Hans was the officer on duty in this section of the border and was stationed in an office in the local headquarters. When necessary, he would be called out in a P3 to one of the guard towers.
The night watch was usually very quiet. Hans would busy himself with paperwork or take a soldier escort with him and make a motor patrol along the border in the P3. On this night, however, he received a call from the tower that Friedrich had been supervising. Lieutenant Stoller was sick, the soldiers said. Hans rushed over in the P3, his headlights barely illuminating the narrow patrol road in the death strip through the fog. It was a dangerous drive—there were mines not far from either side of the road, but Hans’ concern for his friend pushed him to drive faster than was reasonably safe.
When Hans reached Friedrich’s tower, he was immediately met by a soldier.
“Comrade Lieutenant Stoller’s collapsed at the base of the ladder,” the soldier said.
“Did he fall?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was going down, and just collapsed at the bottom. I wanted to call a medic, but he refused. He insisted I call you, Comrade Lieutenant Brandt.”
Hans looked up at the tower’s windows. “Who else is up there?”
“Nobody,” the soldier replied.
“Then get back to your post. I’ll let you know if I need help.”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.” The soldier turned and scrambled back up into the tower.
Hans walked through the door of the guard tower, a concrete structure some four stories tall. There was nothing but a ladder inside that lead to the observation floor above. Friedrich was slumped next to the wall, leaning against the ladder. The light from outside the tower fell on him, revealing his flush and sweat-covered face. Hans was immediately concerned. Despite the cool night, Friedrich looked as if he had spent an hour in a sauna.
“Hilf mir,” Friedrich whispered. “Help me, Hans.”
Hans knelt beside him and opened Friedrich’s collar. “What happened, Friedrich?”
Friedrich did not answer; he shook his head, seemingly delirious.
“I’ll get a doctor,” Hans said, as he stood to go to the radio.
Friedrich grabbed Hans’ sleeve in a strong, firm grip. “No. No doctor.” He pulled Hans closer to him, and spoke in an even lower tone. “I’m not sick,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I need your help,” Friedrich implored, his eyes frantic and begging.
“Why? What’s happened?”
Friedrich glanced up toward the observation floor, ensuring that he was out of earshot of the guard above. “You remember the escape that happened last week at the checkpoint in town?”
“Yes, though we didn’t learn about it until this morning,” Hans said.
“I know. Nobody noticed. I was on duty then. None of us saw anything.”
“If no one saw anything, Friedrich, then they can’t single you out for punishment. It’s a failure, yes, but one of us all.”
Friedrich hesitated, then continued, haltingly. “Only, that’s not true. I did see something. The girl who escaped, Eva, was in her boyfriend’s car. He’s a West German. I let the car through. I knew she was hidden in there, and I did it, because she’s my girlfriend’s sister. I couldn’t let Katrin’s sister go to prison.”
Hans leaned back, stunned. “How did you know about this?”
“Katrin asked for my help. I couldn’t refuse her.”
Hans didn’t know what to say. He could only muster, “I see.”
“But now the Border Control and the Stasi will find me, Hans. I know they will. Please help me.”
“What do you want me to do, Friedrich? I don’t know what I can do to help you.”
“Help me escape. Help me get across. I can’t go to prison!”
Hans grit his teeth in frustration. Ruefully, he hung his head. “I can’t do that, Friedrich. I’ll help you any way I can, but I can’t do that.” The situation was spiraling out of control much faster than Hans could anticipate, but he knew he was in a terrible dilemma. He had worked nearly five years now in deep cover, something Friedrich could never have known. And yet, because of his mission, Hans had to deny helping Friedrich obtain the thing he told himself he was fighting for: freedom.