The Berlin Assignment (44 page)

The consul methodically picked his way through the mess. The outwardly innocent little volume had disappeared into his suit pocket. Upstairs he wanted to have five more minutes with Geissler to settle him down. He thought of describing the tundra, but the owner of the books had fled.

Over lunch Sabine asked, “What happened down there? Herr Geissler came up as if he saw the devil. He ran into his office and slammed the door. Did you find what you were looking for?” Hanbury was evasive. “It was a small book and difficult to locate in the bad light. He seemed tired. Maybe he was annoyed his time was wasted.”

Sabine didn't probe. She wanted to know whether he had been to the Brücke Museum in Dahlem. She reminded him they were there once before. Hanbury remembered it. He then casually asked whether she had
smashed his stereo back then. Sabine admitted it. How did he know? “I half suspected it,” he said.

A few days later when Hanbury handed Schwartz the book, the professor had difficulty hiding his excitement. “I can't tell you what it means for me to have this. It's an unusual find. I'll do a paper on it in a bibliographical journal. Of course, I'll express my thanks to you in a footnote.”

“No need for that,” said the consul. “It was nothing. Geissler found it, not me.”

“I know,” replied Schwartz. “But you got him to do it. No one else could have.”

“It was his cousin in the Yukon. Geissler did it for his cousin, not for me.”

Schwartz laughed. “The one that searched for gold?” He rubbed the cover of his new book. “This is my gold.”

The little volume, Hanbury saw, gave Schwartz the same inner pleasure as Geissler showed the first time they went into the cellar to view his treasure. And Stobbe had that air when he showed off the Stasi files. All three of them – the historian, the bookseller, the archivist – in their different ways they were custodians of what once was. The consul believed he was acquiring an understanding of what the professor meant when he referred to the thin book as gold. “I can see why it's valuable for you.” he said. “Some days ago I was in a historian's bonanza.” Schwartz stopped playing with the
Orden
book. “I mean the Stasi files.”

“Normannenstrasse?” Schwartz asked, his forehead wrinkling into a frown.

Hanbury told him about the tour he had. “Kurt Stobbe. Know him?”

“By reputation only. Why did he show you around?”

“He thinks I could find evidence there on Nazi war criminals who have gone underground in Canada.” Hanbury shrugged. “Anyway, war criminals aren't my responsibility.”

The professor studied the consul. “Even if you tried, you likely wouldn't get far. Not with the Stasi files. We historians run into this when we stand before an archive. A starting point is required. You need a way in.”

“I didn't like the place,” Hanbury said. “Geissler thinks there's evil down there in his cellar, in his books. But those files are worse.”

Schwartz laughed. “We historians don't distinguish. If you do want to round up some old Nazis and need a starting point, let me know. I can help. After all, I'm now firmly in your debt.”

Randolph McEwen on the train to Munich was using the time to read. His resources had been savaged and Berlin Station had ceased to fly. Even cheap train tickets now provoked stinging questions from sullen clerks in accounting. The wheel of fortune creaked and McEwen was no longer moving upward. A sordid deterioration. Something to keep from Graf Bornhof.

Life in a slower lane. It took a little getting used to, facing days of tedium. On the other hand, time had opened up for newspapers, time for reading instead of scanning. Which was what the meta-diplomat was doing on the train. A thick stack of clippings on the seat opposite waited for him, like a terrier expecting attention from the master. An abused pocket dictionary, finger-stained and pages rumpled, was going through another workout. A light workout. Because Gundula Jahn's style was penetrable. McEwen found she didn't invent words that went on for a full line. Nor did she fashion sentences that continued for a dozen column inches. He didn't like the normal, local journalistic style.
Sometimes you'd have to wade for five minutes through a newspaper sentence, not knowing until the end whether Honecker should or should not be released from jail, if an accused East German border guard had denied or confessed to murder, or whether a stalwart bishop accepted or rejected accusations of having been a Stasi spy. Always the same thing – tortuously intricate considerations poured into each and every sentence before the main thought was completed. As far as McEwen was concerned, it showed a neurotic way of thinking.

But Gundula Jahn was different. She had a sprightly way of putting things. Compared to the others, reading her was like a levitation, an airy flight over the swamps of German prose. And the views she expressed – through her friend Gregor the mouthpiece – were lucid. McEwen had become a fan of Gundula. He had never met her, but he had begun to like her. Too bad she got herself involved with Friend Tony now that his end was near.

An excellent report out of East Berlin from a lingering spectator provided the breakthrough. Plutonium smuggling, clear and simple. The consul's jig was up. And so, regrettably, was Gundula Jahn's. And, for good measure, Günther Rauch's too. The whole nest would soon be cleared away. Graf Bornhof must have the same proof. Why else a summons to Pullach for an urgent off-the-record chat? The graf had been guarded on the phone. As he ought to be, sitting on a mountain of new, explosive information.

His instincts, McEwen congratulated himself, had once more proved reliable. As predicted, retirement would come after a final, dazzling display of intuition and a deft assembling of known facts. A multi-national ring had crept into the post-Cold War security vacuum and he, Randolph McEwen, had smelled it. Within the year he might expect a presidential citation from Uncle Sam, a medal from Uncle Teut and, who knows, an enamelled maple leaf tie-clip from the Beavers. Could a knighthood then be far behind?

Immersed in a syrupy glow, Randolph McEwen found the journey pleasant. A good occasion to reread Gundula's columns. He enjoyed contemplating her character as it jumped off the pages. A piercing writer. Full of subtle mischief and vitriolic wit. The columns, McEwen considered, were a feat. For weeks, every day, Gundula built a story.
The Life and Times of Gregor Donner Reich
. Gregor was described as having been a slight and wistful man with a precise moustache and thinning hair. Before the Wall came down, for decades, he ran a modest but useful business in a remote corner of East Berlin: a repair shop for all kinds of broken things. In the soothing atmosphere of the shop, no damage was as bad as first appeared. Gregor was dedicated and industrious, unassuming and friendly. An example, Gundula claimed, for the whole Neighbourhood.

Yet, Gregor Donner Reich was different from his neighbours. Not in any outward way; outwardly he lived like them. What distinguished Gregor was his
seeing
eye. Not that he wished to be observant – it happened against his will. He couldn't help it. He was always observing and registering things happening around him.

Randolph McEwen almost clapped his hands upon deciphering this passage. He identified with Gregor. It could be a burden, he agreed, to have insight into all the sub-surface goings-on.

Gregor was special in another way as well, because he wrote down what he saw. In fact, Gundula drew on Gregor's writings in telling his life story. Actually, she claimed in her column, Gregor had two seeing eyes. The
outer
eye observed people and events in the Neighbourhood which he described in letters to his mother. He ended all his letters to his mother with an endearment and his initials:
Your ever-loving GDR
. But Gundula also had access to Gregor's secret diary in which he chronicled what he saw with a kind of
inner
eye. The diary had to be kept secret because certain individuals in Gregor's Neighbourhood – he affectionately called them
Bozos
– had they learned of it, would
have thrown him into jail. Even if he had been
suspected
of keeping a diary, it would have gone badly for Gregor; in the Neighbourhood inner eyes were
verboten
. Therefore, Gregor kept the diary hidden in a plastic bag, inside some greasy rags, behind black oil tins, under several bent bicycle wheels, in a far corner of the shop. Gregor wrote in his diary only in the depth of night in his room at the back of the shop with the shutters shut. But the letters to his mother he wrote during the day, in between repair jobs. By the time his mother got them, he knew, half the Bozos in the Neighbourhood had read them first. To her he always wrote nicely about the Neighbourhood. He made it sound like paradise.

McEwen was entertained by Gregor's situation. He intuitively understood it. The need to keep a secret fix on things went deep in many people. He had recruited many spectators around the globe in his decades of success. He knew what made them tick.

Gundula began to describe Gregor's daily life, quoting frequently from the letters to his mother. Gregor is happy in the letters because by definition the Neighbourhood is that way. Everybody has a job and no one ever loses it. They live in good apartments; the rents are cheap. Crime doesn't exist. Mothers are satisfied. They have careers. Their infants are looked after cost-free. Children lack behavioural problems. With permanent smiles they join choirs, gymnastic clubs, or symphony orchestras. Quite a few go on to win Olympic gold medals.
All
is free;
everything
is provided. Gregor is successful too. He becomes the secretary of the local angling club, a responsible position for which he is rewarded. He and two neighbours are encouraged to apply for – and they receive! – permission for a permanent spot to pitch tents in a communal camp ground beside a big lake not too far from where they live. Gregor writes he feels even closer to his neighbours now because they can plan their vacations together. Their tents are pitched a half-metre apart. They find joy in practising equality and in sharing.

But the story in the secret diary is different. Gregor's inner eye formulates questions. Everyone has a cheap apartment alright, but why does it take eight years to get one? Why in a land of plenty is it a problem to get a couple of new spokes for a bike? And, if life is so perfect, why do people want to leave? Or, why are children ill after swimming in the lake? Gregor would like to know the reason for people waiting twelve years to get a Trabi, yet Bozos seem to get them on demand. Gregor has a thousand questions.

Gregor writes a lengthy digression in his diary on the charms of being a Bozo.
Bozodom
is what he calls the dauntless apparatus running the Neighbourhood's affairs. The interplay between Bozodom and the Neighbourhood is an enduring subject for Gregor. His inner eye focuses on curiosities. Gundula quotes a telling passage from the diary in her column to help her readers get the flavour.

Although no one is without a job, only half the people work. Although only half the people work, Bozodom's targets are easily exceeded. Although the targets are exceeded, there is nothing in the stores to buy. Although the stores are empty, Bozodom claims everyone has much more than needed. But although everyone's needs are surpassed, most people hate the Bozos. And although Bozodom is universally despised, it claims that more than 99.9 percent of the people vote for it.

McEwen guffawed with delight when he unscrambled this. He lifted out a notebook, licked a pencil and copied the passage. Such insight should be kept handy. Gregor's secret questions never stop. There is much for the inner eye to see. What is it about the world outside the Neighbourhood that is so dangerous? he asks. Why is no one allowed to see it? Or, why do Bozodom statistics show great wealth when everywhere he looks – bridges, roads, buildings – are crumbling?
And why
The Firm
? Why does The Firm snoop into ordinary people's lives, forcing neighbours to live in suspicion of each other? Gregor confesses to his diary that even during the jolliest moments in the campground, neighbours don't talk openly. Not even husbands and wives, he states, dare discuss Bozodom frankly, unless they're in a boat far out in the middle of the lake.

One day Gregor writes excitedly to his mother. He has learned Gorby will be visiting. He tells her he aims to go and see him. Gregor hopes he can touch Gorby's coat. A diary entry of the same date explains this. Gorby is rumoured to have a cure for certain congenital diseases which derive from Bozodom.

The letter he sends her afterwards is even more enthusiastic. Many people touched Gorby. Gorby said great things. Everyone was inspired. This inspiration builds into fervour. Gregor is writing like crazy trying to record the changes. Gorby, it turns out, was quite the healer, because one day the Neighbourhood wakes up and finds
The Cure
has taken. Not only are Bozodom's cancers eliminated, Bozodom itself is gone for good. Gregor is free to bring his diary into the open. He fills pages with spontaneously-felt, euphoric observations. Neighbours can finally talk. And they travel! All in separate directions. They travel until they drop. They know of the fabulous wealth amassed by the Relatives on the other side of the Wall and they go wild with anticipation. Nor do the Relatives skimp. They promise that a huge train full of goodies is being loaded. But more! Soon on its way will be the
Miracle Machine
. For forty long years the Neighbourhood awaited this.

Gregor's
Life and Times
, thus far, were spread by Gundula over about three weeks of columns. Then she informed the Gregor fans, that he was going through a major adjustment, a personal crisis of some kind. For example, he stopped writing to his mother. Perhaps he could no longer keep her happy with good news. In any event, only the diary record remains to trace the rest of the story. Yet, even Gregor's diary is
no longer crisp. Frequently the entries are a confused jumble of observations with the inner and the outer eyes mixed up. It seems the euphoria in Gregor's Neighbourhood over the Cure began ebbing.