The Valley of Unknowing (32 page)

55

In the prisons at Hohenschönhausen and Lichtenberg most of the cells were bare, freezing and unsanitary, with hardly enough space to lie down. I have seen them since in books and magazines. Some have been preserved in their original state and opened to the public. The flavour of dictatorship is now on the tourists’ menu, along with the zoo and the pressure-sprayed glories of Hohenzollern architecture. But the cell I was taken to – I am still not clear as to its location – has not featured in any magazine or tourist guide. The colour scheme might have elicited the odd pang of nostalgia among former citizens whose memories of the Workers’ and Peasants’ State are still clouded with affection. But it would never have provoked the frisson of pity or horror that the tourist is looking for. It was the size of a modestly priced hotel room and furnished in much the same way: a single bed with a wooden headboard, beige carpeting, a corner sofa, an upholstered upright chair, a coffee table upon which sat a carafe of water and a glass. A large window with lace curtains looked out over the yard some thirty feet below. There was even a small television with a pot plant resting on the top of it, and a shelf of books: a smattering of the classics, texts on Marxism and revolutionary theory, several modern novels, including works by Christa Wolf and Johannes R. Becher, and finally a complete set of the
Factory Gate Fables
in paperback. Most unexpected of all, I found a small bathroom, equipped with a lavatory, sink and shower, and a single towel in chemical pink.

I did not find these luxuries reassuring. Traditionally it is a condemned man who is given a hearty meal and it seemed obvious to me that my accommodation had been arranged on a similar principle. Looking out at the empty street, at flurries of snow caught in the downcast glow of a solitary street light (the window was not barred; but neither would it open), I became convinced that this was the case. They were not keeping me in an ordinary prison because ordinary prisons were populated with prisoners and guards who might recognise me. That would never do. My disappearance was to be unexplained, my final resting place unmarked and unrecorded – exactly like my mother’s.

I don’t know how long I spent in that commodious condemned cell: my watch had been taken away upon arrival, along with the vodka and my English raincoat. It was a long time before I was calm enough to make use of the bed. It was only then, as I lay staring at the white textured ceiling (reminiscent of a holiday boarding house, like the floral pattern on the lampshade) that I began at last to assemble the pieces of my exploded plan, to ask myself where I had gone wrong. The most striking scrap of information was that Claudia Witt had not been arrested, but had made good her escape to the West. This was good news not just for her, but for me: because it meant I could not betray her. I could not, in fact, betray anyone – anyone except Theresa and she was out of reach. I had never been fully trusted by Anton’s network, which had irked me at the time, but a clear conscience was the result.

This, however, left a troubling question: if Claudia had not betrayed me, who had? Who had made contact with the authorities and told them of my plans? Someone else in the network, perhaps – that was possible – someone I had never met or seen or heard of. My face was recognisable. Anyone involved in the preparation or delivery of my passport could have been responsible: a back-room traitor, a mole. But then, why was I the one singled out for betrayal? Why me and not Manfred Dressler, or, for that matter Claudia Witt?

Mentally I reran my truncated interrogation. From the start the man behind the desk had focused on my supposed contacts in the West. Whom did I know in Switzerland? With whom had I shared my plans? The secret police had made a connection to Martin Klaus’s home town, the location of his lakeside villa, but not to Klaus himself. How could they have known about the location, but not about the location’s significance? Wasn’t that the wrong way round? And what made my melancholy examiner so certain I had failed to keep my intentions a secret? How could he be sure of that?

Answers – plausible and implausible – crowded into my head. It was a question of arranging the evidence in a credible sequence, like the scattered pages of a story. This was the metaphor I clung to. If I could correctly order those pages, I might be able to discern the narrative as a whole; its shape, its direction, its message. Stories were my business, my lifelong preoccupation. I sat up. I drank some water – at least, I recall having a glass of water in my hand. (Have I given the impression that I was calm in those first hours of captivity? If so, the impression is misleading.) When I put the glass to my lips, it rattled against my teeth. It was fear, naturally, but something else too: a gradually unfolding horror. Because already a story
was
taking shape, the fragments coalescing of their own accord into a sequence. And the logic of that sequence was undeniable – irresistible, in fact, though I tried to resist it. One by one the fragments became pictures, the pictures became scenes; plot points in a dark and squalid tale, one which I, in my innocence, could never have dreamed up: a story of the modern world.

I can still see it played out, as if on the big screen. First scene, final act: Claudia slipping through the border control in a suit of Western clothes, concealed in her pocket a letter for a friend. Then the surprise arrival in Austria; embraces and celebrations. Her friend is no longer the impoverished student, living off casual work and pocket money. Her friend has her own car, her own flat. Her Western clothes look a lot more expensive than Claudia’s Western clothes; and she has a wardrobe full of them. It’s all the money from her book, which is enjoying its fourth month on the
Spiegel
bestseller list in Germany.

Claudia doesn’t hand over the letter straight away. The letter will shift attention away from her, to the lover still waiting on the other side. She wants Theresa to herself for a little while. What about the musical career, she asks? Has Theresa anything lined up for the coming year? Any auditions? Her friend says no. Things have slipped a little on the viola front. Since the summer, the book – the signings, the interviews, the promotional tour – has taken up almost all her free time. She may be going to America soon. Besides, the money even in Western orchestras is terrible. You practise like a slave for thirteen years and you end up with the pay of a postman.

Claudia puts on a brave face, but she knows things have changed. This isn’t the Theresa she knew in the East. Back in her element, Theresa is a very different creature. She detects a brittleness, a forced jollity that conceals – she sees it, finally – a sense of obligation. It comes to Claudia that their friendship is already a thing of the past. In the East they had been united by music; but here in the West such cultural adhesives cannot be counted on. In the West there are other considerations, social and material; and those considerations divide them just as The Wall divides their country.

Claudia produces the letter. ‘I’ve news,’ she says.

As she watches her friend read, she wonders if the lover will fare better with this new Theresa when the roles of native and visitor, guest and host, are reversed. Will their bonds prove more durable? For all the ensuing excitement, the breathless interrogation – When is he coming? Where will he cross? When was this all arranged? – she senses that the answer is no. In Theresa’s excitement there is the same brittleness, punctuated by moments of anxious cogitation. At one point she sits down suddenly with her fingers pressed to her mouth.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ Claudia asks.

‘Of course I am,’ Theresa says. ‘I’m just worried. In case something goes wrong.’

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Claudia says. ‘It’s all been worked out. Less than a week from now he’ll be here. Or in Munich.’

‘Munich?’

‘I think he said something about Munich.’

Munich means Bernheim Media, means Konrad Falkner, means everything unravelling to the point of no return: no chance for Theresa to shape events, to manage this dangerous unmasking. Eva Aden’s death sentence is to be a fait accompli. Her point of view, her interests are surplus to requirements. Is this the reason Bruno is coming: not for her at all, but to reassert control of the enterprise, an enterprise in which she’s already invested much more than time?

She gives Claudia some notes from her purse, says goodbye quickly, sends her back to the hostel where she’s got herself a bed. No sooner is the door shut than she’s on the telephone to Switzerland, tearful, contrite, more than a little scared. Her name is on all these contracts. A lot of the money has been spent. How is she going to protect herself? What should she do? Klaus understands her reasons for secrecy – secrecy maintained for the author’s sake above all – but with regard to her immediate predicament he is less than reassuring. The matter needs to be handled carefully, he says. In fact, it needs nothing less than complete orchestration. As things stand, Bruno Krug is no one’s idea of a dissident; nor is
Survivors
an obvious example of dissident literature. The Workers’ and Peasants’ State hasn’t been mentioned in the press releases or on the packaging; and so far the reviewers have made little of the allusion or missed it altogether. If they aren’t careful, Theresa’s fronting of the book could end up looking like a scam, a marketing ploy aimed at maximising exposure and international sales. If that were to happen, they could really be in trouble. Bernheim Media would seek to distance themselves from the whole affair, for fear of being seen as a co-conspirator. Other publishers would follow. Law suits and ruin lie in wait.

‘I thought he’d at least consult me,’ Theresa says, the tears welling. ‘I thought we were partners. I suppose I should have seen this coming.’

‘No,’ Klaus says, manful and protective instincts getting the better of him. ‘
I
should have seen it coming. For what it’s worth, it sounds like we’ve both been used.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘It would be as well to assume the worst.’

Then they’re on to the details: the when, where and how of the imminent migration.

Klaus has always felt the presence of a significant other in Theresa’s life. He sensed it in her reticence on matters of the heart. Now he has a name and a face to go with it. ‘Try not to worry,’ he says, already anticipating how this crisis will bring them closer together. ‘I’ll make some calls. See how the land lies.’

He means Bernheim and certain trusted contacts in New York (Americans being litigious and unsentimental in matters of business), but as he thumbs through his Rolodex it comes to him that there are other parties he could contact, another call he could make – a call that would put an end to their problem once and for all; an anonymous call, one that could never be traced to him. Will he have to tell Theresa? Will he have to lie to her? Probably not. Because she will never ask him about it. It will be something they deliberately never discuss. Upon reflection, he is quite certain about this. There are some things it is better not to know and, as far as Theresa is concerned, this will be one of them. He isn’t even sure, as he ponders the means of execution, if the idea wasn’t really hers in the first place, if he hasn’t merely reached the conclusion she wanted him to reach.

The next morning – a beautiful, clear morning, the sunshine sparkling on the frosted trees, the mountains snow-capped and magnificent on the skyline – Martin Klaus drives into the middle of Erlenbach. Within sight of the elegant baroque church he steps into a phone box and makes an international call to the Ministry of State Security on the far side of the inner German border.

He is completely unaware that the prowess of the Ministry’s technicians is such that his call will subsequently be traced to the local exchange.

56

My interrogation turned out to be the first of several, the others being lengthier by far. This was not because my interrogators repeated many of their questions in an attempt, perhaps, to winkle out inconsistencies, but because there were no inconsistencies, or very few. I had no reason to withhold information on my attempted defection; and so, with a bitter, purgative relish, I chronicled the affair in the fullest detail, such that my interrogators (working in shifts) often struggled to keep up with me.

I told them how I had met a young music student from the West and fallen in love with her; how I had grown jealous of Wolfgang Richter, a younger and more talented artist; how, little by little, I had sacrificed everything to the Theresian cause: my honour, my loyalties, my self-respect and finally my way of life. And how, in the end, I had been betrayed, as a man without honour deserves to be betrayed – and must be, if his story is to serve any purpose or make any sense. I did occasionally edit, embellish and, where necessary, expurgate the tale, and not only for reasons of economy or style. I did not, for instance, reveal my theft of Richter’s medical file, nor how Michael Schilling had helped procure my photograph. Nor did I reveal that Theresa had believed
Survivors
to be my work, rather than Richter’s. From such a piece of information it might be inferred that I had been planning to go West for years. Otherwise, my aim was to concentrate blame upon myself and to avoid implicating others.

This part of my task turned out to be quite easy, if only because my interrogators were almost completely in the dark. They appeared to know nothing of my scheming, of Richter and his book, of the literary phenomenon that was Eva Aden, or of the money that had been made. So when I told them of the hard currency piling up in the West they seemed quite ready to accept that this was the driving force behind everything that had happened. Richter’s book had been smuggled out of the country to make money (because a Western girl could not be kept happy without it); the alluring persona of Eva Aden had been created in order to maximise the take; I had been tempted to abandon my country on account of the resulting fortune, at least partly; I had been betrayed so that Theresa would not be obliged to give it up. Successfully shorn of all ideological and ethical dimensions, my story emerged as one of vanity, corruption and greed; merely squalid. This, I expect, was what saved me.

Self-evidently, I was not disposed of. I was not put on trial, or held on permanent remand, as so many were. I did not disappear. After less than three days in my not incommodious rooms, I was ushered into a large, airy office with a flag beside the window. My first interrogator was present, but standing. Behind a desk sat a plump, moustachioed man in a civilian suit. He did not introduce himself, which I understood to be the custom among officials in this branch of the government service, but – most unusually – addressed me by name. He told me that I had taken a very serious ‘wrong turn’, but that the state was capable of recognising human frailty and believed in giving valued citizens a second chance, provided they were able to demonstrate a renewed commitment to the founding principles of the Workers’ and Peasants’ State. Then he looked me in the eye and asked me if I would seize such a chance if it were offered me, to which I dared not answer in the negative.

There then followed quite a lengthy discourse on the progress of socialism and the difficulties necessarily encountered along the way (to wherever it was going). I do not remember the details. I was too busy at the time wondering how a renewed commitment to the founding principles of the Workers’ and Peasants’ State would be demonstrated in my case. A lengthy period of manual labour was sure to be involved, in a cement works or a mine or – more likely still – on a collective farm, the kind of place where, in Richter’s imagination, unpretentious peasants wiped their backsides on my prose. It was often said of intellectuals that their alienation from proletarian labour led to alienation from proletarian values, and that the best way to restore the correct perspective was to hand them a spade or a pickaxe and set them to work. But I was wrong. What was demanded of me was only that I write – not a eulogy to the Party Secretary on the occasion of his sixty-fifth birthday, nor a hymn to the soldier guardians of the inner German border, but something even less appealing and even more difficult – the latest instalment of the
Factory Gate Fables.

I should not, in the meantime, make any application for foreign travel, not even to other socialist countries, no matter who proposed it. Invitations to conferences or symposia were to be turned down. At the same time the facts of my transgression and detention were not to be disclosed to anyone. I had taken care to keep my departure a secret; I should continue indefinitely in the same vein. If it became apparent that I had not observed this condition of secrecy, if word got out that I had attempted to defect, my exceptional pardon would be revoked and the appropriate sentence imposed. I agreed to all this readily and not just out of fear. My betrayal had left me strangely numb; two competing emotions (rage at Theresa, fury at myself) enforcing a tenuous, unnatural calm that left me indifferent to the finer points of my release.

‘Everything will continue as if nothing has happened,’ the moustachioed man declared, looking at me over the tips of his fingers. ‘You will put the whole unfortunate episode behind you. You will go home and return to work. Only work – work for the common good – can redeem you, comrade.’

From a distance I see now that my detention was not deemed to be in the interests of the state. In the dwindling artistic firmament of the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, mine was still a star that would be missed. In my character and my motives a chance had been seen to smooth over the whole affair without embarrassment. The authorities – at what level I do not know – had decided to take it. Yet this was not how I saw things at the time. Sitting in the middle of that stately office, I perceived my treatment as an act of indulgence, such as might be extended to a mischievous child, a confused adolescent, or a harmless clown. I felt simultaneously slighted, patronised and grateful.

‘As a token of the state’s faith in you, you will be allowed to retain your titles and awards,’ the moustachioed man declared. ‘You will remain a People’s Hero of Art and Culture. But you must strive anew to deserve that honour.’

I said I would. I didn’t correct him on the nomenclature.

The interview was concluded. The door opened. I got to my feet.

‘Should I take a train today?’ I asked, because I had momentarily lost the power of decision-making and because it was already beginning to get dark.

‘Today, tomorrow, it’s up to you.’ The moustachioed man looked at his watch. ‘You’re a free man, Herr Krug,’ he added, without a touch of irony.