wasn’t the most sensible move.’ He passed the letter, envelope and enclosed instant-camera photo over to Müller. Müller looked at the photo first. It was colour, something hard to come by in the Republic. But what was interesting was it was a self-shot photo of Silke in front of the main entrance of the KaDeWe department store in West Berlin. She looked at the western postmark on the envelope. From just three days earlier – after the murdered girl’s body had been found. She raised her eyes to Tilsner’s.
‘So she’s in the West. And alive. Our body by the Wall is not Silke Eisenberg.’
‘No, boss. Not unless someone else posted it after she was killed. And while that’s possible, it seems unlikely. So we’re no further on.’
They heard sobbing behind them, and both turned. Standing there in the doorway, Marietta Eisenberg looked both upset and alarmed. As well she might, thought Müller. Her daughter may not be dead, but she was guilty of Republikflucht . And if Marietta Eisenberg had helped her daughter to flee to West Berlin, then it wouldn’t merely be her husband enjoying the hospitality of a Stasi jail.
8
Day Five.
Prenzlauer Berg, East Berlin.
Gottfried Müller knew that he was breaking a promise to his wife, but justified it by reminding himself that she’d broken an even more important pledge: her marriage vows.
Each of Gottfried’s strides up Schönhauser Allee was more like a stamp of frustration. He could have caught the U-bahn but he needed the air and the anonymity of the street, rather than being glowered at by some matron across an underground train carriage.
Gottfried could feel his glasses slipping down his nose as he strode on. He pushed them back into place, and then waited at the red pedestrian Ampelmann sign outside Dimitroffstrasse U-bahn station; Wartburgs, Trabants and Ladas poured more of their fumes into the choking night-time smog. Since he’d come back from Rügen everything had been a hundred times worse than before he went. At first he’d been quite keen on the idea of a few months by the Baltic coast in the reform school. That was until he’d actually seen the conditions. But even there, he’d felt calmer, as though he could actually make a difference, even if it was just a question of trying to cheer up the children and show them some kindness.
Gottfried decided to walk up Pappelallee – it would be quieter. He needed to calm down before he reached the church. Saturday’s argument with Karin still rankled. That she’d chosen to stay out all night rankled even more. He could tell she was lying, so he in turn felt no guilt coming here now. All previous bets were off.
With his head bowed, he almost failed to spot an elderly woman weaving her way through the patches of snow on the pavement. She stumbled, and he reached out to hold her and prevent her falling, thinking how frail and light she felt – and realising that the left arm of her coat was empty, just fabric hanging down limply. The woman nodded her thanks and carried on her way, but Gottfried stopped a moment. It was a timely reminder there were people worse off than him. He watched the woman’s back as she shuffled off, the coat arm flapping as she went. Was she too old for a prosthesis? Or was it her badge of honour? Older citizens with missing limbs from war wounds or bombing injuries had been a common sight when he was growing up in Berlin. That and the huge number of angry single women who’d fly off the handle at the slightest schoolboy provocation. Women widowed and aged before their time by the ravages of war.
He glanced at his watch, pulled his coat up around his neck and speeded up his strides. If possible, he wanted to be a few minutes early for the meeting. Pastor Grosinski might be able to offer some useful advice on how to avoid the collapse of a marriage. Although perhaps he and Karin would just be better off letting nature take its course.
Approaching the entrance to the church,
‘So she’s in the West. And alive. Our body by the Wall is not Silke Eisenberg.’
‘No, boss. Not unless someone else posted it after she was killed. And while that’s possible, it seems unlikely. So we’re no further on.’
They heard sobbing behind them, and both turned. Standing there in the doorway, Marietta Eisenberg looked both upset and alarmed. As well she might, thought Müller. Her daughter may not be dead, but she was guilty of Republikflucht . And if Marietta Eisenberg had helped her daughter to flee to West Berlin, then it wouldn’t merely be her husband enjoying the hospitality of a Stasi jail.
8
Day Five.
Prenzlauer Berg, East Berlin.
Gottfried Müller knew that he was breaking a promise to his wife, but justified it by reminding himself that she’d broken an even more important pledge: her marriage vows.
Each of Gottfried’s strides up Schönhauser Allee was more like a stamp of frustration. He could have caught the U-bahn but he needed the air and the anonymity of the street, rather than being glowered at by some matron across an underground train carriage.
Gottfried could feel his glasses slipping down his nose as he strode on. He pushed them back into place, and then waited at the red pedestrian Ampelmann sign outside Dimitroffstrasse U-bahn station; Wartburgs, Trabants and Ladas poured more of their fumes into the choking night-time smog. Since he’d come back from Rügen everything had been a hundred times worse than before he went. At first he’d been quite keen on the idea of a few months by the Baltic coast in the reform school. That was until he’d actually seen the conditions. But even there, he’d felt calmer, as though he could actually make a difference, even if it was just a question of trying to cheer up the children and show them some kindness.
Gottfried decided to walk up Pappelallee – it would be quieter. He needed to calm down before he reached the church. Saturday’s argument with Karin still rankled. That she’d chosen to stay out all night rankled even more. He could tell she was lying, so he in turn felt no guilt coming here now. All previous bets were off.
With his head bowed, he almost failed to spot an elderly woman weaving her way through the patches of snow on the pavement. She stumbled, and he reached out to hold her and prevent her falling, thinking how frail and light she felt – and realising that the left arm of her coat was empty, just fabric hanging down limply. The woman nodded her thanks and carried on her way, but Gottfried stopped a moment. It was a timely reminder there were people worse off than him. He watched the woman’s back as she shuffled off, the coat arm flapping as she went. Was she too old for a prosthesis? Or was it her badge of honour? Older citizens with missing limbs from war wounds or bombing injuries had been a common sight when he was growing up in Berlin. That and the huge number of angry single women who’d fly off the handle at the slightest schoolboy provocation. Women widowed and aged before their time by the ravages of war.
He glanced at his watch, pulled his coat up around his neck and speeded up his strides. If possible, he wanted to be a few minutes early for the meeting. Pastor Grosinski might be able to offer some useful advice on how to avoid the collapse of a marriage. Although perhaps he and Karin would just be better off letting nature take its course.
Approaching the entrance to the church,
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