For Fiona the pain was made worse by the guilt of inflicting it upon a man who loved her. She was very tired – and the journey had left her with a splitting headache –that morning when they brought Bernard in to face her. It was a test – perhaps the toughest one she would face – of her ability, her conviction and her resolution to pursue her role even in the face of Bernard’s contempt and hatred.
Brought in by a guard he was dirty and unshaven. His eyes stared at her in a way she had never seen before. It was a horrible hateful exchange but she played her part determined that Bernard would see no glimmer of hope. Only his despair would protect her.
There was a tray with coffee pot and cups on the desk but Bernard didn’t want any. ‘Is there anything to drink in this office?’ he demanded.
She found a bottle of vodka and gave it to him. He poured it into a cup and drank a large measure in one gulp. Poor Bernard: she suddenly became afraid that this would be the beginning of a long drunken bout. ‘You should cut down on the drinking,’ she said.
‘You don’t make it easy to do,’ he said. He smiled grimly and poured more for himself.
‘The D-G will send for you, of course,’ she said more calmly than she felt. ‘You can tell him that the official policy at this end will be one of no publicity about my defection. I imagine that will suit him all right, after all the scandals the service has suffered in the past year.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
She watched him: he’d gone green. ‘You never could handle spirits on an empty stomach,’ said Fiona. ‘Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?’
‘It’s you I’m sick of,’ he said.
It was as much as she could bear. She pressed the floor button and the guard came to take her husband away. Against her training, and her better judgement, she blurted out, ‘Goodbye then, darling. Do I get one final kiss?’
But Bernard thought she was gloating. ‘No,’ he said and turned away.
As soon as Bernard had been taken through Checkpoint Charlie and released, Fiona pleaded tiredness and went back to the hotel suite they had provided as temporary accommodation. She took a long hot bath, two sleeping pills and went to bed. She slept the clock round. When she finally awoke there was a moment in which she believed that it was all a terrible dream, that she was at home in London with no complications to her life. She pulled the bedclothes over her head and stayed there unmoving while she slowly came to terms with the bizarre world in which she found herself.
After that terrible encounter with her husband, Fiona’s arrival and installation in East Berlin was more endurable. The debriefing seemed to go on forever, but Bret Rensselaer had thought of just about everything and her prepared answers seemed to satisfy the men who asked the questions.
The KGB personnel chief had gone to a lot of trouble to make her as comfortable as possible, and the minuscule apartment with its hard bed and outdated kitchen had to be compared with the crowded rooms and shared kitchens and bathrooms that were a normal part of living in the capital of the DDR.
Her office in the KGB/Stasi operational command building was light, and it had a new sheepskin rug and a pinewood desk, imported from Finland. These were considered status symbols. More important, they’d assigned to her a fifty-year-old male secretary named Hubert Renn, who spoke fluent Russian, some French, a little English and could take shorthand. Renn was a hard-line communist of a kind which only Berlin produced, and which was now almost extinct. He was the son of a stone mason, and together with his fifteen brothers and sisters had grown up in a dark three-room tenement in a cobbled alley in Wedding. During the nineteen twenties das rote Wedding was so solidly communist that the block was run on communal lines by appointed Party officials. Renn’s mother had been a member of the ISK – Internationaler Sozialistischer Kampfbund – a political sect so strict that its members rejected alcohol, tobacco and meat. She left the ISK upon marriage, since only full-time workers were permitted membership.
Short, agile, undernourished and eternally combative in spirit, Renn was also efficient. It was typical of his frugality and practicality that when he turned back the lapel of his jacket he revealed a selection of pins, safety-pins and even a needle.
When Fiona first came face to face with her newly appointed secretary she thought that they’d met before. This mistaken familiarity came from her memories of people depicted in old photos of Berlin streets. Despite this feeling she was to discover that Renn was like no other person she’d ever met. With his thick neck, truculent ruddy face, neglected teeth and the short hair that responded to neither brush nor comb, here was a character straight out of Brecht.
Little Hubert Renn had been exposed to Leninism and Marxism while in the dented tin bath that doubled as a cradle. Essentially militant, the ISK rejected Marx’s theory about the inevitable collapse of capitalism. The necessity of violent struggle was something he had heard his mother and father endlessly debating. After such an upbringing no one could teach Renn anything about the phraseology of left-wing politics. Even Pavel Moskvin, a Moscow-backed bully with whom Fiona had that morning crossed swords, could not best him in political argument. But Renn didn’t mince words about ‘the German road to socialism’ or spend much time discussing why, at the vital Parteitag in April 1946, the party’s declared aspirations had been based upon Marx and Engels and not Lenin and Stalin. Renn – who had been present at that historic congress – preferred to ask, somewhat archly, why it had taken place in the Admiralspalast theatre, noted otherwise for ‘top comedy routines’.
My father was an anarchist, he told Fiona once when they were discussing some of the heresies, and that was the key to Renn’s character, for Renn too was an anarchist in his soul. Fiona wondered if he realized it; perhaps he simply didn’t give a damn any more. Some who’d waited too long for the millennium became like that. Renn’s description of Pavel Moskvin – a ‘Moscow-backed bully’ – was freely offered to Fiona that morning before she’d met the man. And Renn was just as ready to be outspoken about everyone else in the building.
For the first couple of weeks Fiona had suspected that this outlandish old fellow had been put into her office as some sort of agent provocateur, or because no one else in the building would put up with such an oddball, but it didn’t take her long to understand that in the DDR the bureaucratic process didn’t work like that. It wasn’t so easy, for even the most senior staff, to arrange to get the secretary that they wanted, and old Renn would not be an agent provocateur easy to run. The truth was that staff were assigned according to a rota in the personnel office. Her grade was eligible for a clerk of Renn’s seniority and his previous boss had retired the week before she arrived.
Fiona and her secretary had spent all of Wednesday in a small conference centre in Köpenick Altstadt, in the wooded outskirts of Berlin. She had witnessed lengthy and sometimes acrimonious exchanges between her colleagues. There had been senior security men from Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary meeting to discuss the still somewhat muddled and disorganized political reform groups, and religious groups, in the East Bloc. Agreeing upon a concerted policy of dealing with them was not so easy. Fiona was pleased at the material she was gathering. It was exactly the sort of intelligence that Bret Rensselaer was so keen on, and the anxiety the communist security men had revealed at this meeting in every way supported Bret’s projections. When contact was eventually established with London she would have a policy formulated.
She was going through the meeting in her mind while they waited for the car that would take them back to the Mitte. The others had been collected by a bus from the transport pool but Fiona was entitled to her own car. Cars, more than any other perquisite or privilege, were a sign of status, and establishing status was all-important in the DDR. So they waited.
Fiona walked down to the river, admiring the cobbled streets and the crooked old buildings. Surrounded with trees, Köpenick’s church and Rathaus huddled upon a tiny island at a place where the River Spree divided. On the adjacent islan
d – Schlossinsel –there was a richly decorated seventeenth-century palace. In its magnificent Wappensaal Frederick the Great had stood trial for desertion. From where they were standing it was possible to raise a loud cheer for the dilatory rate at which East Berlin was being rebuilt. From this view it was easy to visualize Köpenick on the day that renowned bogus captain marched in to discover how devoutly the Germans revere a military uniform, no matter who wears it.
She had hoped that the fresh air would help rid her of her headache: she’d been having too many of these racking headaches lately. It was stress, of course, but that didn’t make the pain any easier to endure.
‘Herr Renn,’ said Fiona: she never called him by his first name.
Renn had been looking at the traffic crossing the bridge. Soon the East would be clogged with cars just as the West already was. He looked at her. ‘Did I forget something, Frau Direktor?’
‘No. You never forget anything. You are the most efficient clerk in the building.’
He nodded. What she said was right and he acknowledged the truth of it.
‘Do you trust me, Herr Renn?’ It was a deliberate way of shocking him.
‘I don’t understand, Frau Direktor.’ He glanced round but there was no one else standing along the riverfront: just workers and shoppers going home.
‘I never get the minutes of the morning meetings until late in the afternoon of the following day. Is there a reason for that?’
‘Everyone receives the minutes by the same delivery.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘We are slow; that is the only reason.’ A large air-conditioned bus came crawling over the bridge. Pale Japanese faces pressed against its grey smoked glass. From inside it came the shrill commentary of the tour guide of which only the words ‘Hauptmanns von Köpenick’ could be easily distinguished. The bus moved slowly on and was lost behind the trees. ‘They never go and see the Schloss or the Art Museum,’ said Renn sadly. ‘They just want to see the town hall. The tour guide will tell them about the bootmaker who bought an army captain’s uniform from a pawn shop, assumed command of some off-duty grenadiers and arrested the mayor and the city treasurer. Then they will all laugh and say what fools we Germans are.’
‘Yes,’ said Fiona. Despite the Schloss and the dark green woodland and the clear blue lakes and the rivers, the only thing anyone ever remembered about Köpenick was its captain.
‘The sad thing is,’ said Renn, ‘that poor old Wilhelm Voigt, the bootmaker, didn’t want the city funds; he wanted a residence permit, and Köpenick had no department authorized to issue one. He wasn’t a Berliner, you see, and his escapade was a fiasco.’
‘I am not a Berliner, nor even a German by birth…’ She did not finish.
‘But you speak the most beautiful German,’ said Renn, interrupting her. ‘Everyone remarks upon it: wonderful Hochdeutsch. When I hear it, I feel self-conscious about my miserable accent.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you have a headache?’
She shook her head. ‘Do you not sometimes wonder if I am a class enemy, Herr Renn?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Vladimir Ilyich Lenin was born into a bourgeois family,’ said Renn in what was a typically ambivalent reply.
‘Leaving the birth of Comrade Lenin aside for the moment,’ said Fiona. ‘If there was an attempt to have me removed from this job, what would be your attitude?’
His already contorted face became agitated as he wet his lips and frowned to indicate deep thought. ‘I would have to consider the facts,’ he said finally.
‘Consider the facts?’
‘I have a wife and family,’ said Renn. ‘It is them that I have to consider.’ He turned to see the river, slow and unctuous now; once it had been fast, clear and fresh. Not so long ago anglers had landed big fish here, but there was no sign of any now. He stared down into the water and hoped the Frau Direktor would be satisfied.
‘Are you saying that you would throw me to the wolves?’ said Fiona.
‘Wolves? No!’ He turned to her. ‘I am not a thrower, Frau Direktor. I am one of the people who are thrown.’ The church clock struck six. His working day was over and done. He opened his overcoat in order to reach into his back pocket for a flask. ‘About this time I sometimes take a small glass of schnapps…If the Frau Direktor would permit.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Fiona. She was surprised. She didn’t know that the old man was such a dedicated drinker but it explained a lot of things.
He unscrewed the top to use it as a cup, and poured a sizeable measure. He offered it to her. ‘Would the Frau Direktor…?’
‘No, thank you, Herr Renn.’
He brought it up towards his mouth carefully, so as not to spill it, bending his head to meet it. He drank half of it in one gulp, looked at her as it warmed his veins, and said, ‘I’m too old to get into vendettas.’ A pause. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have no guts for it.’ A street-car went past, its wheels screaming protest on the rails as it turned the corner. ‘Is the Frau Direktor quite sure…?’
‘Quite sure, thank you, Herr Renn.’
He held the drink and stared across the river as if she wasn’t there, and when he spoke it was as if he was talking to himself. ‘Most of the people on our floor are Germans, time-serving officials like me. None of them are looking for a battle: they are waiting for their pension. The eight “friends” are another matter.’ He drank the rest of the schnapps from the metal cup.
Fiona nodded. Since 1945 Russians were always called ‘friends’, even when some German war veteran found himself recounting the way in which such ‘friends’ had jumped into his trench and bayoneted his comrades. ‘Perhaps I will have a drink,’ said Fiona.
Renn wiped the rim of the cup with his fingers and poured one for her. ‘Six of those friends are in other departments, and would not be promoted whatever happened to you.’
Fiona took a tiny sip of schnapps. It was damned strong stuff: she nearly choked on it. No wonder the old man had a red-veined face. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. It left the two Russians, both German specialists: Pavel Moskvin and the one who affected the operating name of Stinnes (as Lenin and Stalin had assumed theirs). These were the two men she had clashed with during the conference that afternoon. Tough professionals who had let her know that working for a woman was not a relationship to which they would gladly accede. The argument had come about because of a proposed operational journey to Mexico City. She suspected that the whole thing was chosen simply as a way of showing her how formidable their combined strengths could be against her.
Renn said, ‘The big man – Moskvin – is the dangerous one. He has considerable influence within the Party machine. At present he is in disgrace with Moscow – some black-market scandal which was never made public – and such men will go to absurd lengths to prove their worth. He is emotional and violent; and well-adjusted people fall victim to action that is sudden and unpremeditated. The other man – Erich Stinnes – with his convincing Berlin German, complete with all the slang and expletives, is an intellectual: icy cold and calculating. He will always think in the long term. For someone as clever as you, he will prove easier to deal with.’
‘I hope so,’ said Fiona.
‘We must drive a wedge between them,’ said Renn.
‘How?’
‘We will find a way. Moskvin is a skilful administrator but Stinnes has been a field agent. Field agents never really settle down to the self-discipline and cooperation that our work demands.’
‘That’s true,’ said Fiona, and for a moment thought of her husband and his endless difficulties at the London office.
‘Don’t allow your authority to be undermined. Moscow has put you here because they want to see changes. If there is resistance, Moscow will support change and whoever is making the changes. Therefore you must be sure you are the one making the changes.’
‘You are something of a philosopher, Herr Renn.’
‘No, Frau Direktor, I am an apparatchik.’
‘Whatever you are, I am grateful to you, Herr
Renn.’ She looked in her handbag, found some aspirins and swallowed two of them without water.
‘It is nothing,’ said the old man as he watched her gulp the pills, although of course they both knew he’d stuck his neck out. Even more important, he’d indicated to her that under other circumstances he’d probably yield more. Fiona wondered whether he was already calculating what she could do for him in return. She dismissed the idea; better to wait and see. Meanwhile he might prove an invaluable ally.
‘To you, perhaps, but a friendly word goes a long way in a new job.’
Renn, who’d been watching the bridge, touched his hat as if in salutation but in fact he eased the hat because the band was too tight. ‘From each according to ability; to each according to need,’ quoted the old man, stuffing the flask back into his pocket. ‘And here comes our Volvo.’ Not car, she noted, but Volvo. He was proud that she rated an imported car. He smiled at her.
In a year or so she would scuttle off back to the West and Hubert Renn would be left to face the music: Stasi interrogations were not gentle. They would be bound to suspect that he was in league with her. She hated the thought of what she was doing to him. It made her feel like a Judas, but that of course is exactly what she was. Bret had warned her that these conflicting loyalties were stressful but that didn’t make them any easier to bear.
When she got home, to one of the coveted apartments in the wedding cake blocks that line Frankfurter Allee, she sat down and thought about the conversation for a long time. Finally she began to understand something of Renn’s motivation. Just as the Russians could not fathom the way in which some Europeans could be staunch capitalists but rabidly anti-American, Fiona had not understood the deeply felt anti-Russian feelings that were a part of Hubert Renn’s psyche. Renn, she was later to discover, had seen his mother raped by Russian soldiers and his father beaten unconscious during those memorable days of 1945 when the commander’s Order of the Day told the Red Army ‘Berlin is Yours’. And later she was to hear Hubert Renn refer to his Russian ‘friends’ by the archaic and less friendly word ‘Panje’.