Another Kind of Country (27 page)

‘Didn’t seem important.’ Redgrave shrugged. ‘Is it?’

‘Everything is important,’ Dover said. Especially your two kneecaps exploding beside a Disney-style water well in a Communist courtyard. Was it possible that this well-stacked dame he’d tailed tonight was the same kid who’d gotten away with that Commie bastard Dieter? ‘Everything is important,’ he repeated.

‘Anyway,’ Redgrave said, ‘everything is going to plan. Twelve months from now this pathetic little state will have disappeared from the map of the world. Our people are in place, protests going nicely and old Honecker himself is coming under pressure to step down.’

Dover said nothing. His own masters gave the GDR less than a year. Leave it to the Brits and East Germany would be there
until the Second Coming. Meantime, Herbert Dover told himself, Dieter might be out of reach but this general’s daughter could damn well take his place in his
personal quest for righteous revenge.

October 1989

East Berlin

It wasn’t Miller they came for.

The morning was confused, confusing. The
early morning radio news announced that hundreds of demonstrators who’d been arrested in previous weeks would be released throughout the GDR. So why come for me? Miller thought. I haven’t even been demonstrating.

No, what you’ve been up to, the small voice reminded him as he made his way on foot to the office, is infinitely more serious.
Does treason have another name, a kinder one?

The office, like the streets, felt edgy. At the reception desk the wall-faced porters showed a crack in their features. Frau Siedel, incredibly, delivered a cup of coffee, even offered a small smile when he thanked her. Hartheim sent for him in mid-morning and took time out from lamenting the activities of ‘those bastards’ in Hungary and Czechoslovakia to remark, looking out from his corner windows, that the sun was shining on the German Democratic Republic.

There was no mention of the doctored contracts in the bowels of the building.

Nor a sign of the Stasi who might be
coming to pick Miller up.

Miller told Hartheim he would take an early lunch that day if that was OK.

The Director beamed: of course it was OK, Herr Miller should take an extended lunch break, it was a good idea to take advantage of the unexpected sunshine, so late in the year, likely the last they’d see before winter.

Miller reminded himself to stop staring at Hartheim. Maybe the Director knew he would be arrested as soon as he stepped out on to the street. But what could Hartheim know? The Director had no knowledge of Redgrave, of the guy with the birthmark, of General Reder’s safe house in West Berlin – or had he?

Paranoid. But suppose – just suppose – they’re all somehow connected? Or competing? And if they are in competition, what is the prize?
A couple of dozen publishing contracts didn’t seem, even to Miller, a prize worth demonstrating for. Factions, the general had said. Natural resources, he’d said. Land and property.
But how could you steal a country?

Miller stepped briskly through the sunny streets. Even the people seemed sunny, prepared to apologize for bumping into you, to smile at you just because they were there, because you too were there.

Miller smiled because Rosa was there.

The porter at the university reception desk didn’t smile when Miller asked for Frau Rossman’s office. He looked almost horrified when Miller repeated the name.

‘
Einen Moment, bitte.
’

Miller watched the balding porter
step into a back office with a glass door. Through the door he could see the porter speaking to a sharp-faced, middle-aged woman seated at a desk. The woman looked out at him, turned again to the porter. More words, puzzlement on the porter’s face:
what shall I tell him?

Miller saw the impatience in the woman’s expression, saw the impatience harden to anger.

The porter stood aside as the woman got up, came to stand behind the porter’s desk.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a friend of Frau Rossman—’

‘Who are you?’

Miller stated his name, his position at the Secretariat for Socialist Correctness in Publishing. He told himself not to worry but his stomach refused to listen. ‘And Frau Rossman? If you would be kind enough to tell me where her office is, please?’

‘Frau Rossman is not here.’ The words were not unkindly spoken but they offered nothing, invited less.

‘I see.’ Miller tried to smile, to quieten the butterflies in his stomach. ‘And has she a class this afternoon?’

He saw the struggle in the woman’s face, was aware of students passing behind him in the corridor, felt himself the object of curious stares.

‘Herr Miller.’ The woman lowered her voice, leaned across the counter towards Miller. ‘Please, it is better if you go now, please.’

‘But—’

‘Please, Herr Miller.’ Almost a whisper now. ‘Please go.’

Miller saw the kindness behind the icy eyes. And the fear.

He thanked her, stepped away from the desk, was aware of the balding porter staring out at him from the inner office.

He stumbled out of the building, stood at the bottom of the steps. What was going on? Why the shadow of fear in the woman’s eyes?

‘Herr Miller?’ A young woman, a student,
looking not at him but into a thick notebook spread open in her arms.

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t look at me.’ Whispered into the notebook. ‘Follow me.’

Miller sauntered casually behind her. On another day he might have admired the athletic figure; now he saw only the darkening day, heard only the fear in the woman’s voice behind the counter.

The student stopped outside a bookshop, stared at the display in the shop window. Miller stood beside her.

‘You’re looking for Rosa?’ Whispered now into the window.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t look at me.’

‘Yes, my name is Patrick Miller.’ He saw the girl’s reflection in the window, tall, blonde, an icon of German beauty.

‘I saw you with her in ZERO, and again at the parade.’

‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to Rosa?’

‘This morning in class.’ A wobble in the voice, the notebook and books hugged closer to her chest. ‘The secretary came into the class, called Rosa out. The door was open, we saw them in the corridor, two of them. They let her come back for her books but we saw them take her away.’ Her reflection seemed to shiver in the window. ‘Two of them,’ she said again.

‘Who?’ Miller asked. ‘Who took her away?’

She looked at him then. ‘Who d’you think, Herr Miller? Who always takes you away?’

He heard her footsteps on the pavement and he knew he was alone.

Six of them, Rosa looking like one of them, seated in their midst. A small group, Fourth Years, the end in sight, another year and a bit and they’d be out of there, out to class-rooms, offices, maybe newspapers. Nothing too stressful in this early-morning class with Rosa.
Rosa was cool,
you could have a bit of a laugh, a joke, in this little group that gathered weekly in her office.

Not just a joke, Rosa’s class, a discussion group and you managed to have some grammar revision too: whatever cropped up.

So, the nature of power. Everybody chipped in. Mad King Lear. Murderous Macbeth. Murdered Julius Caesar. Words and ideas sparked more words, more ideas. The exercise of power in the factory, in the home. The notion of power seized, authority exercised. The refusal to bend the knee to unjust rule, back to Caesar on the steps, blood in the Senate.

A sudden silence over the seated circle. The students, five girls and one man, seemed to draw a collective breath. They looked at Rosa; knew, like her, that they were skirting the borders of the unspeakable. The unrest on the streets, on the TV screens, had infiltrated Rosa’s office. They looked uneasily, sheepishly, at one another. Even here, in this small group that had coalesced from a bigger group four years previously, even here you never knew if your words were safe, if Judas sat on one of the chairs in the small circle.

Everyone knew that Rosa had most to lose. It was Georg – fat, slobby Georg, the only male among them – who punctured the moment. He stirred in his seat, seemed to spread not only his chubby arms but his substantial haunches, and burst into song:

‘
If I ruled the world, da-da-da-da-da-de-dum-dum-de-dum.
’

They all laughed. Clapped. Some of them knew the song. Some of them even knew that Georg had the girth to match the English singer, Harry something, who had made the song famous in some London show.

And Rosa, too, was grateful for the diversion.

‘Thank you, Georg, for reminding me that this might be a
good moment to take a quick look at the mechanics of the conditional mood.’

Mock groans all around.

‘If I ruled the world, I’d make sure Georg wasn’t allowed to try to sing ever again.’ This from Hannah, beautiful Hannah, who turned every male head in the Institute of English but who seemed always to be in fat Georg’s company.

More laughter.

A quick run through the conditional mood.

If you ruled the world . . .

If Rosa ruled the world . . .

If we ruled the world . . .

If Georg didn’t rule the world . . .

You should go to warn Patrick that they might pick him up tomorrow
. She tried to shut out the words, concentrate on the class. She could still taste him, still feel him inside her. Would the world be better if it were ruled by Patrick Miller? Or by the general?

‘Unless Georg rules the world,’ Rosa began . . .

The students were still laughing when the knock came on the door. A flustered-looking Frau Scholl, armoured in corsets and metallic perm, stood in the doorway.

‘
Entschuldigung, Frau Rossman
.’ Her nervous gesture signalled for Rosa to come.

Rosa felt the students’ eyes follow her into the corridor.

‘These gentlemen . . .’ Frau Scholl’s secretarial poise had deserted her; she gestured helplessly at the two men who stood behind her in the corridor. They were not in uniform but they didn’t need to be.

‘Frau Rossman, you must come with us now.’ They were like twins, neckless, close-cropped, leather-coated.

Rosa looked at the two Stasi,
at the students looking out at them.

‘I have to finish my class.’

‘Now, Frau Rossman.’ The small mouth barely opened in the beefy face.

‘But where? Why?’

Both men flashed IDs; Rosa had a glimpse of black-and-white mugshots.

‘May I call my father, General Reder?’

She heard Frau Scholl make a gulping sound. From the class came the sound of chairs creaking.

‘Enough, Frau Rossman.’ This one’s scalp stubble was darker than the other’s. ‘
Now.
’

‘May I get my books?’

‘Schnell, bitte!’

The silence in her office was heavy as she gathered up her books, picked up her bag.

‘Rosa – Frau Rossman . . .’ Georg was whispering.

She shook her head, put her finger to her lips. There was no point in dragging any of the students into this.

‘
Bitte kommen Sie
,’ she heard from the corridor.

‘Finish your discussion.’ She tried to smile at the little group. ‘When you’re done, lock up and leave the key at the porter’s desk.’ She saw the alarm in their faces, broadened her smile. ‘I’ll see you all same time next week.’

She saw the fear, the doubt, in them as she went to face the waiting Stasi. She just hoped the same fear wasn’t written across her own face.

At least they hadn’t come for her in the hated – and feared – Trabi arrest van. And they didn’t rough her up, getting into the back seat of the car. The older of the two men stood aside,
tipped the passenger seat forward as she climbed into the cramped rear of the Trabi car.

Not a word exchanged between the pair as doors were slammed, gears were ground and the vehicle pulled noisily away from the kerb outside the Institute of English.

So far, not a finger laid on her. Not a harsh word thrown at her.

Silence settled inside the Trabi like a threat, burrowed its way into her innards. The familiar streets rolled by outside: pedestrians, shop windows, policemen. Now the streets looked like a foreign country, peopled by aliens who ignored the red Trabi that was taking her to Normannenstrasse. The smell of male sweat and cigarettes mixed with her own fear.

She wanted to pee.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘I need a lavatory.’

The shaven cannonball heads in front went on staring straight ahead.

‘Please, I need to go.’

The older one stirred in the passenger seat, turned towards her. ‘Cross your legs,’ he told her.

She realized there was a smell of piss in the car too.

‘Please.’

‘Shut it.’

She tried to draw her insides together, hold the flow back.

The streets slid by eastward towards the HQ of the Stasi. Like the entire population of the city, she knew the location of Normannenstrasse; like everybody, she’d hoped never to go there. Once, as a teenager, she’d asked the general what kind of place it was, if the rumours were true. He’d avoided her eyes – she knew that his military work sometimes took him there – and said, speaking to some point over her shoulder, ‘It’s not the sort of place I’d ever want any friend of mine to be taken to.’

She shivered on the plastic-covered seat, pressed her thighs more tightly together.
Forget these two toughs in front,
remember how you opened your flesh to welcome him last night
.

Or maybe not. She wondered if Patrick was the reason they’d come for her. Or the general. She knew only very little of the secret meetings at the general’s house, the nocturnal visitors, the cryptic, seemingly innocent remarks spoken by her father into the phone. If they quizzed her about the general or Patrick, she’d hold out as long as she could.

But in the end you’d let go.

The streets were thinning out. The city was falling behind them, the countryside spreading out ahead. An open road, secondary, a tractor crawling ahead of them, pulling over to let the Trabi pass.

‘Where are you taking me?’