“No grounds to detain them,” the border guard said to the punk.
The border guard was Rico, and the punk was Tam. The punk lived on the Lohmühle trailer site just beyond the watchtower. I’d first met both of them in March when Tam was facilitating a meeting at which Rico was a reluctant participant. Now they were both looking through the gap in the Wall, watching two figures waiting to be cleared for entry by West Berlin police.
“Who you talking about?” I asked them.
“That’s Giesler. Used to be a border guard under my command. Martin wanted to talk to him a few months back—that’s when he and I first met.”
“And the skin with him,” added Tam, “used to be in my school. Steffen Huber. Nobody liked him, he never really fitted in. First of all he was a total communist, ultra-enthusiastic about being in the FDJ. Then he really got into all the militarist training crap with the GST. After 1989 he got involved with the skins. Feels a bit weird, seeing him again.”
I looked across the bridge towards West Berlin, the two figures were heading towards Schlesisches Tor.
“Why did Martin want to talk to Giesler?”
“Gang of skinheads attacked a punk concert about six years ago. Giesler was a policeman at the time, and Martin wanted to ask a few questions. Doubt he got very far though,” Rico answered.
Martin must have been interested in the attack at the Zion Church in 1987, which explained the old newspapers in his office. It was ancient history. Famous, but still ancient. What is it about Martin, he’s always digging up the past as if he thinks the present isn’t already hard enough.
I was about to suggest we head over to the watchtower for a cup of coffee when a car pulled out of the little petrol station just over the border, thirty of forty metres inside West Berlin. As the car swung onto the road I could clearly see the driver.
“Fucking hell—that’s Becker!” It was definitely him, I recognised him from the photo in his personnel files. I grabbed Rico’s field glasses and focussed on the car. It stopped to pick up Giesler and Huber, then drove on. “Been looking for that man for months.” I returned Rico’s binoculars.
“And it looks like he knows our friend Giesler. Did you get the make and licence?”
“Er, it was red wasn’t it?” I tried.
“Volkswagen Polo, West Berlin plates. Here, I’ll write the number down for you.” Rico scribbled in his pocketbook and tore the page out.
***
I crossed into West Berlin, for some reason the border checks had been relaxed and I didn’t have to wait long before the cop on the other side of Wall waved me on. My task was to go and see Katrin, tell her about her dad. I guess I had to reassure her somehow that it was going to be OK (even though right now everything was the complete opposite of OK) and the closer I got to Katrin’s flat the more I wished it wasn’t me having to tell her. I wanted to see her, I really did, but was nervous about it, too. And I definitely wasn’t looking forward to telling her about what was happening.
Maybe that was why I took the long way round and ended up cycling through Lausitzer Platz, which was a good thing. Because, there, parked by the church was a red Polo. There was a good chance that it wasn’t the same one, I mean, have you seen the number of little red cars in West Berlin? I carried on to the next corner then got off my bike and tried to find the piece of paper Rico had given me. I squinted around the corner, yep, that was the car, sitting empty. What do I do now? I looked across the square, lots of people, sitting at tables outside cafés, cycling around, walking around. Becker and the others might even be somewhere close, on their way back to the car.
I decided I needed some camouflage. If I’d been in my half of town I would have just ordered a coffee at a café, but there was no chance of that over here in the West, I couldn’t afford the prices. So I just sat down in the shade of a building and asked passers-by for spare change—it’s what punks do most of the time over here—I fitted in perfectly.
I got a load of abuse and a few coins, and was just starting to think I might be able to afford that coffee after all when Becker came back to his car, followed by the skin, Huber. They were about twenty or thirty metres away, close enough to see clearly, but not close enough to hear what they said.
Huber stood behind Becker, who opened the car door and reached in to grab something. It was an envelope, one of those rough grey ones we use over in the East. It was folded over lengthwise and when Huber took it, he folded it again before sticking it in his pocket.
Becker got into the car and started the engine. I had a choice—follow Becker in the car or Huber who was now crossing the square on foot? I decided to go after Huber—I wanted Becker badly, but I didn’t rate my chances of keeping up with him. Easier to follow someone who was on foot.
I unlocked my bike and went after Huber. He just loped along, not particularly bothered about anything at all. He crossed Skalitzer Strasse on a red light and the cars all beeped at him, but he just carried on. By the time I’d managed to cross he’d disappeared. I guessed he’d gone into Görli park, but when I went through the gates I saw I had no chance—everywhere I looked there were masses of people: hippies lounging around smoking pot, punks with ghetto blasters and Turkish families setting up barbecues. The place was packed. Literally packed. I’d lost the skinhead.
I was pissed off with myself, why hadn’t I just run across the road instead of waiting for a gap in the traffic? Then again, I was in West Berlin for a reason, and I guess right now that was more of a priority than looking for Huber. And anyway, was it so surprising that Becker knew this skin? Becker was involved with the Nazis, and so was Huber. The only surprising bit was this Giesler that Rico said used to be a border guard. I’d mention it to Martin once we’d got him out of the nick.
I walked to Katrin’s, still thinking about Huber. It was time to forget about Becker and the others, and start trying to work out how to tell Katrin about her dad. I rang her bell, and waited for ages but no-one answered. Maybe she wasn’t in? I felt hopeful and despondent all at once. I rang the bell again and waited for even longer but finally I had to admit it.
Katrin wasn’t home.