“It is now time to point out that Herr Schmidt’s house was fortunately situated. It was on a corner which faced the apex of a small triangular park in the Kreuzberg area of West Berlin. When the wall went up it almost touched the tip of the park’s apex. The park itself was no more than fifty meters from the Schmidt doorstep, and it was a pleasant spot of greenery in the midst of the city’s dreariness.”
Maas stopped his story to sip his wine. He seemed to enjoy the role of storyteller.
“After a few months of working at his low-paying position, Herr Schmidt took to standing in a third-story bedroom and staring out at the small triangle of greenery which lay over the wall. Then he began to spend much time in his cellar, tapping here and there with a hammer. And sometimes he would work late into the night, figuring with a pencil on a tablet of paper and drawing diagrams. In June 1962 he summoned a family conference around the dining table. He told his wife and son that he had decided to take them to the West, where he would regain his former position. As for the house — they would leave it. Neither his wife nor his son argued with him. But, later, young Horst drew his father aside and confessed that Liese was pregnant, that they must get married, and that, if he were to go west, Liese must go with him.
“The elder Schmidt examined this new information in his typically methodical manner. He asked his son how far along the girl was and young Horst said only two months. Schmidt then counseled his son that it would be wise not to marry Liese at once but to take her with them to the West Sector. He told Horst of his plans to tunnel under the wall and to come out in the small triangular park. He estimated that the job of tunneling would require two months of work, both of them digging and shoring four hours at night and eight hours on Saturday and Sunday. He told his son that if he were to marry now the Boehmlers would be in and out of the house constantly. Horst asked if he could tell Liese about the plans for the tunnel so that she would be able to plan for the future and not worry about his intentions. The elder Schmidt gave his consent reluctantly.
“The next night Schmidt and son began the tunnel. It was not too difficult a job except for disposing of the sandy dirt. This was done by loading up their small automobile on weekends and driving to various isolated points in the city, where the dirt was dumped from sacks made by Frau Schmidt from bedsheets.
“The mouth of the tunnel in the basement was concealed behind Herr Schmidt’s hand-built tool case, which he mounted on cleverly concealed hinges to swing out from the wall. He illuminated the tunnel with electric lights as it progressed. It was shored with timber that he had accumulated before the wall went up, and he even laid down a rough floor of linoleum. By early August the tunnel was nearly finished. And if Herr Schmidt had been less of a craftsman I would not be telling you this story tonight.
“Schmidt had designed the tunnel to come up in a clump of arborvitae in the small park. It was a thick growth, and he had carefully arranged the exit so that a hard shove would work the earth loose above a circular metal cover. The earth could then be replaced. All of this care, of course, took longer than his original estimate. And Liese, nearing her fourth month, began to fret and to question young Horst about his intentions. Finally he brought her to the house and showed her the entrance to the tunnel. It may have been her pregnancy, it may have been her fear of leaving her parents, but the young lovers quarreled. It was the night before Herr Schmidt planned his escape.
“At any rate, Liese went home and confessed all to her father. Thinking quickly, the good captain told her to patch up her quarrel with young Horst the next day and said that, after all, they were in love and perhaps it would be better for her to have her baby in the West, where she could be with her husband.
“The next night, having smoothed over her quarrel with Horst, Liese packed a small bag, said good-bye to her parents, and walked to the Schmidt house. She arrived an hour before the Schmidts were to depart.
“They had a final cup of coffee at the pleasant dining table. Then, taking only a few possessions, they made their way down to the cellar. As Herr Schmidt opened the tool-case entrance Captain Boehmler appeared at the doorway of the cellar holding a revolver in his hand. He said he regretted that he had to do this to his good friends and neighbors but he was, after all, a servant of the people. He told his daughter to go upstairs and go home. Terrified, she left. Captain Boehmler then told the Schmidt family to turn their backs to him. When they did, he shot them.
“He then dragged them one by one up to the living room. Next he went in search of the Vopos guarding the wall in that particular section and sent them on a mythical errand, saying that he would patrol in their absence. He waited until the Vopos were gone and then dragged the three bodies out of the house and to the wall. He carried out their few possessions and dumped them beside the bodies. He then fired three shots into the air, reloaded his revolver and fired two more. The Vopos came hurrying back, and the captain said he had shot the Schmidt family as they had attempted to escape. He ordered that the house be locked and sealed until he had the opportunity to search it the next day.
“The bodies of the Schmidt family were carted away. Captain Boehlmer himself took charge of the investigation of the Schmidt house the following morning, giving his personal attention to the cellar. In his report he pointed out that the house was dangerously close to the wall and should be either sealed up or occupied by a family whose loyalty to the government was above reproach. His superior pulled a few wires and Captain Boehlmer became the new tenant of the house he had long admired, complete with escape hatch to the West.
Maas stopped talking and finished his wine. “And that is the story of the tunnel.”
“What happened to the girl?” I asked.
“A pity,” Maas said. “She died in childbirth five months later.”
He called for the waiter, who entered a few moments later bearing a new round of drinks.
When he had gone, Maas continued: “And it is a pity about Captain Boehlmer, too. He has been passed over for promotion. Not only that, but the government plans to raze the entire block in which his fine home is located. They are going to build a warehouse, I believe. One with no windows. Captain Boehlmer has decided that he might turn the tunnel — still in good repair, he assures me — to a profit. Just once. Fortunately, his discreet inquiries reached me before anyone else.”
“You want five thousand dollars?” Padillo asked.
Maas knocked an inch of Havana ash from his cigar. “I am afraid, Herr Padillo, that the price is somewhat higher than that which I previously quoted my good friend, Herr McCorkle. It has risen, I assure you, only in proportion to the intensity with which you are being sought by your friends here in the East — and, I might add, in the West.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.” He held up his hand like a traffic cop signaling stop. “Before you object, let me say that I will not haggle, but I will extend credit. The ten thousand can be paid to me in cash in Bonn upon your return.”
“You’re getting awfully generous, Maas. The last time I talked to you, it was all cash and carry.”
“Things have changed since then, good friend. I have learned that my popularity here in the East Sector — which is really my home, by the way — has diminished. In fact, you may say that I, too, am the subject of a search, though not as intensive as the one that is being conducted for you.”
“How much are they offering for us?” Padillo asked. “Not the public offer — the private one.”
“It is a considerable sum, Herr Padillo. One hundred thousand East German Marks. That’s about twenty-five thousand DM or seven thousand, five hundred of your dollars. You see I am not being overly greedy.”