To learn from the Soviet Union is to learn victory!
—EAST GERMAN COMMUNIST SLOGAN
MFS CENTRAL DETENTION CENTER, [EAST] BERLIN–
HOHENSCHÖNHAUSEN
Chipping gray naval paint and smears of blood and feces covered the cinder-block walls of the Stasi prison. The room contained only a table and chair for the interrogator, a stool bolted to the floor, and a slop pail in the corner. Recessed fluorescent lights glowed overhead day and night in the windowless cell. Her side ached from when she fell off the stool and they’d kicked her awake. At this point she would have welcomed a smelly mattress or even a few moments of peace on the grimy floor. Her thoughts were jumbled, but she was certain of one thing: No one ever left this wretched room the same person she went in—except the Stasi interrogators. They never changed. They had no history, no future and probably no present.
The interrogator slapped her, nearly knocking her to the floor. “What does the KGB want with you?”
“I told you. I refused.” Faith ran her fingers over her stinging cheek.
“How long have you known Tatyana Medvedev?” The voice was flat, as if the interrogator were bored with the repetition.
“Since Friday.”
“Why did you go to the Soviet embassy?”
Faith closed her eyes and turned away. Her mind was numb from fear and exhaustion. She didn’t think she could hold out much longer, but she had to. If they believed she’d even talked to the Russians about them, it was over.
“Frau Whitney, answer my question.”
“Over and over, I have.” Faith sighed and glanced over toward a picture mirror. They had taken away her eyeglasses and everything was a blur, but she knew Schmidt was there, studying her. “Get Schmidt.”
“How often did you meet Frau Medvedev?”
Faith turned toward the two-way mirror. “Schmidt,” she said and paused for a breath. “Stop, please. I’m not working for them. You’ve got to believe me. It’s the truth.”
“Pay attention. How often did you meet Frau Bogdanov?”
“Twice. Wait—Bogdanov?”
“So you do know Bogdanov. When do you meet her next?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov. I’m tired. I can’t think straight.”
“You admit you met Bogdanov twice. How do you contact her?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov.”
“When did you first meet Zara Antonovna Bogdanov, lieutenant colonel in the KGB?”
“Medvedev’s Bogdanov?”
“How do you contact Bogdanov, your KGB handler?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her cracking lips together to spread whatever moisture remained and stared at the clear bottle of seltzer water on the table four feet away. “I’m thirsty. Please.”
“How do you contact her?” The interrogator looked at Faith with the dissociated gaze of an executioner.
“I don’t know.”
“What did they offer you?”
“A chess set.”
“Why that?”
“I collect.”
“Were you interested in their offer?”
“No. May I have water?” Faith yawned. She struggled to concentrate. Small variations could mean hours more of questioning. Or worse.
“So you were interested.”
“I’ll never work for the KGB.” Her words were halting.
“And why should we believe that you would work for the MfS and not the KGB?”
“You know about my father.” She fought back tears, but they streamed down her face anyway.
“Did you tell her you’re doing a job for us?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What did they want?”
“Fiber optics.”
“Did you tell them we’ve approached you?”
“No.”
“And why would you work for us and not them?”
“I want to find Daddy.” Her voice cracked. “Water, please?”
“Very well.”
The interrogator popped the rusty cap from the bottle of seltzer water and poured it into a glass.
“Thank you.” Faith reached for the glass. The interrogator jerked it away, threw it into Faith’s face and left the room. Faith rushed to the bottle and gulped the remains. She crawled onto the filthy floor, drew her legs tightly against her body to fight away the cold. At least they hadn’t taken away her clothes. She fell asleep to the acrid odor of stale urine and dreamed of her father valiantly rescuing her.
Sharp pain awakened her. She grabbed her side just before the interrogator’s boot smacked into it again.
“On the stool. I told you never to get off that stool unless I give you permission. What does the KGB want with you?”
“Technology from the List.” She clutched her side and had no idea if she had been asleep for seconds or hours.
“Did you tell them you’re working for us?”
“No.”
“What did you agree to do?”
“Nothing.”
“When did you first meet Colonel Bogdanov?”
Faith once again gave the same answer she had every time, but this time the interrogator suddenly left the room. Faith sat on the stool, waiting, but no one came back. She wanted nothing more than to crawl onto the floor and rest. Still, she waited on the stool, wobbling from side to side as she started to fall asleep. She hoped someone knew where she was. Tatyana, or rather Colonel Bogdanov, might know, but she wouldn’t help her in East Berlin. Dean Reed. Faith’s thoughts kept returning to the American folk singer who defected to the Soviets during the Vietnam War. Soviet youth flocked to his concerts; the more savvy East Germans laughed at their Soviet counterparts, who believed Reed was an American pop icon. Dean Reed couldn’t settle into bleak Soviet conditions, so he chose the GDR as his home. He lived peacefully outside East Berlin until he fell out of favor with the regime a few years back. When his body floated face-down in an East German lake, the communists insisted it was suicide. Dean Reed. Face-down in the lonely water.
Faith had been in the cell for days, but, without any clues from the outside world, she had no idea how many. Hunger and fatigue stretched the time.
She yawned as she forced her thoughts back to the puzzle. What would happen if they found out the KGB knew the Stasi had successfully recruited her? Dean Reed. She had to keep up the lie. Whatever they wanted her for, they didn’t want the Russians to know. It made no sense. The Soviets and East Germans were on the same side. East German loyalty had never wavered. Not in fifty-three, when they ordered their own troops to shoot their own workers. Not in sixty-one, when they divided Berlin with a wall. Not in sixty-eight, when their tanks quashed the Prague Spring. The East Germans were Soviet lapdogs. Why would they suddenly want to keep their masters in the dark? Geopolitics aside, what did she have to do with a rift among communists? All Faith wanted was to find out about her father, but she knew she was caught in the rift zone.
And Faith sat on the stool, waiting.
The interrogator kicked her awake from where she had fallen to the floor. She awoke from one nightmare into another.
“What are you doing for the KGB?”
“Nothing.” Pain doubled her over as she held on to the stool and tried to pull herself up.
“On your feet. We’ve had enough.” The interrogator yanked her hair.
Her scalp burned. The interrogator pulled a blindfold from a pocket and bound it around her head. Fingers sank into her arm. The interrogator led her from the cell, deliberately running her into the hated stool.
Light seeped under her blindfold. Artificial. Night, or a windowless hallway? She sensed someone behind her. She turned her head.
“Walk.” The interrogator shoved her.
Damp cool air rose toward her. She tripped on a step, but someone caught her. She smelled the aftershave. Schmidt. The fucker was here all along.
The interrogator pushed her into a car and climbed in beside her. The other door opened and Schmidt wedged himself into the backseat. The car seemed smaller than the Mercedes that had picked her up in West Berlin. She doubted he was taking her home. They still needed her, she thought—she hoped.
The car sped down a long, straight road. Karl-Marx-Allee? Frankfurter Allee? Leipziger Strasse? She didn’t hear many other cars. The bursts of streetlight under the blindfold grew farther apart, then only darkness. The steady swish of the windshield wipers counted down the minutes of her life.
The car stopped.
“Out!” The interrogator pulled her from the car and dragged her several yards into shallow water.
Faith was shoved onto her knees and she sank into the deep cold mud.
The interrogator grabbed her hair and pushed her down. Faith inhaled just before her face smacked the water. It stung all the way up her nose and the burn radiated through her sinuses. She coughed, inhaling more. She fought, but sank deeper. Terror.
The interrogator jerked Faith’s head from the water. Faith gasped for air. She couldn’t hold on much longer, but she knew her life depended upon it.
“For the last time, when did you first meet Colonel Bogdanov?”
“Friday.” She sputtered.
“How do you contact her?”
“I don’t.”
“What did she want from you?”
“Technology.” Dean Reed.
“Did you tell her you’re working for us?”
“No! No! No!” She was falling into hysteria. “No!”
The interrogator shoved her back under the water. Faith held her breath. Her head throbbed with pressure. Suddenly her lungs contracted. She inhaled, sucking in water. She coughed. She gasped.
Then she was back to the surface.
“What did you tell them about us?”
Faith heaved, her body convulsing. She knew she was going to drown the next time. She had to give them what they wanted. She opened her mouth to tell them the KGB knew.
Before she could speak, the interrogator forced her back under the lonely water.
Dean Reed.