Josef Siehi, now forty years of age, believed himself to be a victim, a casualty. He had supported the old regime and never doubted the legitimacy of the Party. He had accepted his orders, placed bugs, met the informers, interrogated men and women, followed targets in careful surveillance, had broken up the meetings of the environmentalists. He had only done what he was told to do. If he had been ordered to fire on the mobs in the last hours of the regime, then he would have done so, and he did not understand why the order had not been given. He lived now high in a block on the Hohenschonhausen complex of Berlin with the new filth around him. He had been driven from his apartment in Rostock by scum who did not realize that he had dedicated his life to their betterment through the socialist ideal. In Hohenschonhausen, he was surrounded by drugs and thieving and vandalism. He had been married twice before, divorced twice before, and the woman with whom he lived shared his aptitude for complaint. Each night, back from work, skinny and sallow, poor and bitter, he and the woman shared complaint about the new life, the new indiscipline, the new hardship. He worked as a security guard on a building site for the new Sony tower. He had been an Unterleutnant, he had twice in Rostock been personally commended by Generalleutnant Mittag, and now he was a security guard on a building site… He had been given, once a month, the duty of supervising the cell block at Rostock. Always correct, of course, but harsh in his administration of the prisoners. His nightmare, the role reversal, that he should be a prisoner in a cell block. On the night of 21 February 1988 he had been ordered from his desk by Hauptman Dieter Krause, he had driven one of the cars. He had dragged the body back to the trawler, he had roped the lobster pots to the body. He stood to live the nightmare, to be locked in a cell as a prisoner.
They left Krause. By dawn, Siehl would be in Peenemunde and Hoffmann would be in Lichtenshagen and Fischer would be on the road from Ribnitz-Damgarten to Stralsund and Peters would be in Warnemunde. They would all be in place at first light.
It was the last point of the last match of the evening.
Eva Krause sat in her seat with her fists clenched. She was breathing hard. Her daughter served for the match… Ace. The opponent never moved. The service ball thudded from the court into the back netting. Her daughter stood proud on the base line with her arms, her racquet, raised. The opponent was a gawky, gangling girl, limbs too long for her body, and for a moment she hung her head, then trotted to the net, held out her hand and waited. She wore an old costume, handed down, and held a racquet that was reinforced with binding tape. Eva stood and clapped, forgot for the moment that the seat beside her was empty, and watched her daughter, who savoured the applause and took her time before advancing to the net. The handshake was cursory. Christina Krause did not even look at her opponent as she shook the hand offered to her but gazed around her as if to enjoy the triumph.
Eva gathered up her daughter’s tracksuit and the spare racquets. She was pushing them into a bag.
He came from behind her.
‘You are Frau Krause? It is your daughter that has defeated my daughter?’
She nodded.
He was tall, as his daughter was. He had sparse hair, prematurely grey, uncombed. He wore trousers without creases and old trainer shoes. The elbows of his coat had been ripped and were sewn, and the cuffs were frayed.
‘You should be very proud, Frau Krause, of your daughter’s ability. She looks to be well coached. It is a beautiful outfit she wears. There is great power in that racquet, yes, but expensive. I was here last night, Frau Krause, to see my Edelbert play and I stayed to see the girl who would be her next opponent. The man who came to join you, last night, that was your husband?’
He gazed at her. His eyes never left hers. She thought it was as if he had waited a very long time, as if he would not now be deflected.
‘Your husband, yes? The name of your daughter was announced on the loudspeaker and I saw her wave to you and you waved back, so I knew it was your daughter. The man, your husband, came and joined you, I saw that. I did not know that his name was Krause, but I knew his face. Do you have a good memory for faces, Frau Krause?’
The row of seats behind her ran to a wall. He stood between her and the aisle steps of the stand. He spoke with a soft, reasonable voice that was without menace, and the voice chilled her.
‘Eighteen years ago, I was a student at the university, my first year. My course should have led me to be a constructional engineer. You would say, Frau Krause, that I was stupid, but in my defence I would say that I was young. On a wall in August-Bebel Strasse, opposite the building they used, with my girl-friend, I painted the slogan “Old Fascists, New Fascists – Old Nazis, New Stasi”. It was scrubbed out by dawn the next morning, but I was very stupid and I returned the next night with my girl-friend and we painted the slogan again. We were caught and arrested. Your husband, Frau Krause, was in charge of the investigation. Did he ever tell you about the conditions in the cells at August-Bebel Strasse? Did he tell you what was done to those charged with being “politically negative”? I was sent to the prison at Cottbus for three years and my girl-friend was sent to the prison at Bautzen for one year and a half. That is why I remember so well the face of your husband. You should not be afraid of me, Frau Krause..
Her daughter, Christina, was waiting at the bottom of the aisle steps and waved peremptorily for her to come.
‘The day I was released from the prison at Cottbus, the day I met again with my girl-friend, our Edelbert was conceived. I did not have a university degree, nor did my girl-friend, but we could do the arithmetic, it was that day in 1983. For both of us, there was no possibility of returning to the university. Our futures were destroyed because we had painted on a wall. I swept the streets, my girl-friend scrubbed the floors at the offices of the Freie Deutsche Jugend. Our futures were destroyed because of the thoroughness of the investigation of your husband, Frau Krause. When the Wall came down, when your State was finished, I believed a fresh opportunity would come for me, for my family. But I had no qualifications. I have gained nothing from the new freedom. You should not be afraid, Frau Krause, I will not beat you as I was beaten in the cells at August-Bebel Strasse ..
Below her, her daughter had her fingers in her mouth and whistled piercingly for her to come.
‘I am pleased to see that you have done well from the new times, Frau Krause, and that your daughter wears a beautiful costume, that you can afford for her to be coached, that she has expensive racquets. Remember me to your husband – the name is Steiner, but perhaps he will not recall me. Frau Krause, believe me, I have to be very disciplined so that I do not put you on the floor and kick your face, as your husband kicked my face in the cells at August-Bebel Strasse. Will your good fortune last for ever, Frau Krause, or will the day come when you are destroyed as I was? Goodnight.’
He was gone. Her daughter whistled again. She saw the man go to his daughter near to where Christina stood, hands on hips and pouting, and put his arm around the girl, who kissed him, and they left arm in arm.
She felt so cold. She went down the steps.
‘Who was that old drone?’
Eva Krause said, ‘It was the father of your opponent.’
‘What did he want?’
She took her daughter’s bag, carried it for her. She said, wearied, ‘He came to me to congratulate you.’
‘She was useless, not coached. Did you see her gear? Rubbish. Where is my father?’
Chapter Eleven
Right now… What would you be doing…?’
‘What do you mean?’ She lay on the bed, on her stomach, chin resting against her fists.
‘What would you be doing, if this hadn’t happened?’