A German Summer

As the Apollo 11 astronauts prepared to land on the moon, the Chambers family was engaged in a rather more prosaic adventure: a two-week visit to Rügen Island in East Germany. Hildegard had spent her childhood bicycling under its chalk cliffs and playing on its long stretches of silver sands and wanted her daughter to experience something similar, a holiday more memorable than the family’s usual two-week bucket-and-spade trip to Cornwall. Anna would see her grandmother, learn a bit more of the German language, and even experience a taste of communism.

Sidney had initially been reluctant to come since, on a previous visit, just before the Berlin Wall went up, he had been arrested on a trumped-up charge of spying. Hildegard had needed to pull many strings in order to get him out. It was just as well that her father, Hans Leber, had been a martyred communist hero in the early 1930s. As soon as the Stasi realised who she was they had taken a more lenient view, but Sidney was determined to avoid trouble if he ever went back to East Germany and made it clear that he would have preferred an uneventful seaside holiday in England. He was, however, persuaded by his wife’s need to see her mother and for Anna to appreciate the delights of a country she had never visited. In other words, he was outvoted.

They were staying at the Villa Friede, on the Strandpromenade in Binz, an imposing three-storeyed Bäderstil building with a white façade adorned with balconies, verandas and a decorated frieze containing symbols of peace and friendship. Hildegard remembered all the architectural details from her childhood and delighted in pointing them out to her daughter. A neat garden with white roses and sea buckthorn faced the sea and the wide stretch of sands. It was, Sidney imagined, the kind of place Thomas Mann would have stayed when contemplating the philosophy of time, illness and death.

The villa was owned by local government official Günter Jansen, his wife Maria, and their son Jürgen. Günter was an old admirer of Hildegard from her schooldays. He was a small, wiry man with a neat moustache and sharp shoulders; a former athlete who still believed in keeping his body in shape and his wits about him. He was a middle-ranking official responsible for housing and construction in the Free German Trade Union Federation, an organisation that technically owned his establishment, since most hotels had been taken into state control in the early 1950s. But no one who visited the Villa Friede could be in any doubt that Günter and Maria Jansen still ran the show, and that this almost certainly involved a series of under-the-counter financial arrangements that required secrecy, energy and persistent watchfulness.

Maria was a fine-featured, dark-haired woman with almost translucently pale skin, a high forehead and small but luminous amber-brown eyes that carried a melancholy allure. In the West it would have been assumed that she had perfected the stylish ‘no make-up look’ but in the East this was achieved simply by wearing no make-up. She dressed mainly in black and spoke little, clearly finding it pointless to keep up with her husband’s relentless front-of-house optimism. Instead she preferred to work behind the scenes, overseeing the hotel staff, the kitchens and the bedrooms, while keeping an eye on a son who had grown so large she could no longer believe that she had ever given birth to him.

Jürgen was a quietly inventive eleven-year-old boy who was always making something out of wood or wiring, whether it was a crystal radio, a remote-controlled car, or a miniature helicopter. People at school called him a Mondgucker, a moon-gazing idiot, but he was far cleverer than he let on, a loner who clung to his parents, continually wanting their approval and their love, only to find that they did not have enough time to provide the amount he craved. His favourite activity was to ride in the sidecar of his father’s prized MZ motorbike along the sea front, urging him to go faster and faster, leaning into corners, and shrieking with delight if they ever had a near miss with a passing car.

Hildegard watched with quiet amusement as every morning and evening father and son exchanged the Young Communist League salute:

‘Für Frieden und Sozialismus: Seid bereit,’ Günter declared. ‘For peace and socialism: be prepared.’

And Jürgen replied with his right hand held high, fingers together, palm out, with his thumb aiming towards the top of the head and his little finger pointing towards the sky: ‘Immer bereit. Always prepared.’

Sidney had wanted to ask his wife about her nation’s twentieth-century tendency towards ideological extremism – the full-circle swing on the watch from communism at eight o’clock over to fascism at four and then back to communism at eight again – but he hadn’t dared. Instead he listened carefully whenever Hildegard told fragments of its story through the memory of her father, while her mother presented family history as one of revolutionary struggle. Sibilla Leber was already ensconced in the hotel when they arrived and insisted that they all pay tribute to her husband’s memory by attending a special Friendship Festival that weekend. This was a celebration of socialist solidarity involving music, gymnastics, sport and military display. It would be a perfect opportunity, she said, to witness East German idealism in practice.

After everyone had polished off a hearty breakfast of ham, hard-boiled eggs, Brötchen and home-made Sanddorn jam, the families got the children down to the beach. It was a mild summer’s day with a light breeze and the idea was to make the most of the good weather before the wind picked up. They settled into a couple of Strandkörbe: open-faced, sheltered and hooded wicker beach seats that could seat a family of four. Lena Jansen, the family matriarch, soon arrived to check that all was well and to reminisce with Hildegard’s mother, repeating their old sadness that it was such a pity their children couldn’t have married each other.

It soon became clear that Günter, despite being wed, still carried a torch for Hildegard. While Sidney started to build a vast sandcastle with Anna, his host sidled up to her in a Strandkorb, leant in closely and spoke in rapid German: ‘I remember, Hildy, when you first came here. Your father was still alive. You thought you were lost in the woods and I brought you home. It was getting dark. Everyone was worried. You could see the moon. We held hands.’

And Hildegard replied: ‘That was forty years ago. We were so little. So much has happened that I hardly remember my childhood. I often wonder what it would have been like if I’d never left.’

‘I wish you hadn’t.’

Sidney’s German was not fluent, but he understood all too well what Günter meant. Maria was irritated too. She got out of her chair and vented her frustration on her son and on the equally annoying dachshund that yapped around them.

‘Go and swim in the sea and take Franzi with you,’ she shouted. ‘Play in the waves. Leave us in peace.’

She put down a beach rug and laid out a little picnic with herring, dried toasts, apples and cheese, and handed out glasses of a drink made from sea buckthorn that was supposed to increase energy. Not that Jürgen needed any more. The boy ate all the time. It was as if he was trying to consume his own hunger.

As he ate, Günter made relentless pronouncements on contemporary politics, the evils of Western capitalist greed and the injustice of the global economic system. This was a man who was used to an audience. Despite his oleaginous approaches to Hildegard, Sidney almost admired their host’s authoritative way with those around him. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from someone who managed to disguise his more outrageous assertions with bold gestures and confident laughter, implying that anyone who disagreed with him was an idiot.

It was well known, he assured the Chambers family, that American interests were imperialist and corrupt and that their expansionist plans always punished the decent working class. He then demolished a salted hard-boiled egg and left, saying that he had both party and business matters to attend to. There was a building that he had promised to inspect on behalf of the trade union federation. It had once belonged to Thomas Pietsch, one of the family’s oldest friends, who had died in the spring.

Lena Jansen told Hildegard’s mother all about it. The dead man had given up hope, she said, but then he had never been the same since he had lost his business after the war and been imprisoned on a charge of political corruption. It had been a shame, but Thomas Pietsch had never known how to play the system; unlike her son Günter, who knew everyone, had always been popular (and should have married Hildegard ).

She suggested that they pay his widow a visit. ‘We have to stay true to our comrades despite what happens to them. It is easier for you, Sibilla. Your husband was a hero.’

‘But he died. What is the point of a dead hero?’

‘It is better than a living coward.’

‘Thomas Pietsch wasn’t a coward. He was naive and greedy. That is all.’

‘At least his son has learned. He is a clever boy; just like my Günter. And Jürgen is clever too. He could have been your grandson.’

‘That was not to be,’ Sibilla Leber replied, ‘but I never imagined my daughter would marry a priest. It must have been the shock after her first husband died. That’s the only reason.’

‘He seems decent enough for an Englishman.’

Sidney realised that he was being talked about. He was now forced into a position in which he could not help but overhear the conversation but had to pretend that he was preoccupied with something else. This was a difficult act to pull off, particularly as he needed to listen intently in order to follow the German and understand what the two women were saying. Hildegard saw what he was doing and smiled. She was going to let him stew.

Sibilla Leber dropped her voice and continued talking about her son-in-law without mentioning him by name. The wicker seats were cocoons that muffled sound and prevented anyone else listening in properly. Sidney wondered if they had been deliberately invented to avoid surveillance. Whether he sat on a picnic rug or joined people who were already talking, he could not feel he belonged in this strange lunar landscape, populated with myriad space-like modules amidst the craters in the sand. ‘The clergyman is perfectly respectable, I suppose,’ Sibilla Leber went on, ‘but he’s too curious. He pokes his nose in where he should keep well away.’ She kept repeating the German word for nosy: neugierig, neugierig, neugierig. ‘You can see him thinking about other people all the time and judging them. I don’t like it.’

‘You don’t have to see him so much, Sibilla.’

‘Hildegard tells me all about him. She won’t complain because of what happened with her first husband – you know he died in circumstances she has never explained to me – but I’m certain this one neglects her. Family comes last for him and not first. That man always has his nose in other people’s business.’

Sidney could not decide whether or not he was meant to hear all this, much less understand it. It was so annoying that he was not able to interrupt and put his case. What business was his marriage of theirs? He began to dig so furiously around the moat of Anna’s castle that he showered her with sand, making her cross.

The two women talked about their visit to Thomas Pietsch’s widow. Her son Otto had apparently done well in the construction industry. He had worked hard and kept his nose clean, unlike his father and unlike Sidney, who was still referred to as neugierig, neugierig, neugierig. These old biddies really had a nerve.

Maria said in passing that she didn’t trust Otto Pietsch. His father had died too young. He was only sixty-four. Perhaps his son had helped him along the way?

Her mother-in-law was appalled. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

‘Perhaps I’m speaking the truth?’

‘There’s no need to say these things out loud.’

‘What does it matter?’ Maria said quietly.

Lena Jansen leant close to Sibilla and whispered for all to hear. ‘Our hostess is unhappy. Her husband doesn’t love her, but how can he when he still has feelings for Hildegard? She should have her hair permed; wear some lipstick like your daughter.’

Sidney had had enough. He picked up his bucket and spade and took his daughter off to make a better sandcastle nearer the water’s edge. Despite being ‘family’, they were some of the rudest people he had ever met.

In bed that night he did not like to criticise them directly. He was well aware that to complain about his mother-in-law so early on in their holiday would be an act of folly, and to raise the subject of Hildegard’s friends and relations so soon after their arrival could only cause trouble.

However, he didn’t want to let the matter rest and decided to try a roundabout route by talking to Hildegard about Maria Jansen’s unhappiness.

‘I have never known her to be content,’ his wife observed.

‘She seems to have given up on life.’

‘She finds her son difficult; her husband too. I don’t think she likes the politics. It makes them vulnerable.’

‘Do you think it’s also because she knows Günter would rather have married you?’

‘If you behave, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Did you ever think what that might have been like?’

Hildegard sighed. ‘It was what our parents wanted.’

‘And Günter too.’

‘Maybe. But I had no intention of doing what everyone expected. I wanted to choose for myself; and I did so. Twice.’ She pointed her finger. ‘Don’t make me have to decide one more time, Sidney.’

‘I am always fearful of that possibility.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘I am serious. You might think differently about our marriage now you’re back in Germany.’

‘This is a very different country now.’

‘I can’t help but feel this is where you belong.’

‘No, Sidney. We have made a new home in England. Although I cannot forget who I once was, nor the lessons of my childhood.’

‘Perhaps none of us can. Nor should we . . .’

Hildegard continued. ‘The idea of belonging changes as you grow older, don’t you think? It’s hard when we don’t own our own home and you work in the Church. I think sometimes that you would prefer to be a constant pilgrim.’

‘I feel most at home when I am with you and Anna. It doesn’t matter where we are.’

‘But you need your distractions.’

‘That’s not always true.’

‘More often than not. You may be concerned about my feelings now that we have returned but I am also worried about you, Sidney. Will there be enough entertainment? So far there has been no crime and no lonely perfumed women. What are you going to find to amuse yourself? Perhaps, now that we are in a foreign land, you will be thrown back on your resources, without the protection of your past, your country, your church and your friends. Maybe I will see the real Sidney at last?’

Anna Chambers was excited by the imminent possibility of men walking on the moon. She had brought her little telescope from home in the hope that she might be able to see them land. Her mother hadn’t had the heart to tell her how improbable this was, but she did promise to wake her up in the middle of the night so that she could see the event on television – provided the East Germans showed it.

This did not seem likely. There were only two state channels and there was so little chance of picking up reception from West Germany that Rügen was known for being part of Tal der Ahnungslosen, the Valley of the Clueless. Instead, the children watched the mishaps of Clown Ferdinand and his caravan.

‘Jürgen loves it when people fall over,’ said Günter, laughing loudly, believing that if he found something amusing then other people must too. ‘He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. He’ll try and trip you all up, just you watch. He likes his fun.’

‘Es ist so lustig,’ said Jürgen.

‘This is boring,’ Anna told her mother. ‘It’s not funny. I want to see the men on the moon.’

Sidney wondered when they were going to go out and sample the delights of a local brewery. Günter finally obliged by taking him to his favourite Bierhalle, a large two-storeyed building that doubled as a cinema and community meeting hall, with bright yellow walls decorated with stucco reliefs of gymnasts, dancers and musicians.

Outside, an oompah band played ‘Wein, Weib und Gesang’ and all around them people were toasting each other: ‘Prost, prost, Kamerad! Prost, prost, Kamerad! Prost, prost, prost, prost, prost, prost, Kamerad! Wir wollen einen heben: prost, prost prost!’ As they spoke they moved their glass to their head, chest and stomach – Zur Mitte, zur Titte, zum Sack, zack, zack – before downing the beer in one.

Günter bought the first round of drinks and they spoke in a mixture of English and German, helping each other out whenever necessary. He said that he was surprised Sidney had agreed to come on such a holiday. ‘I thought the British preferred France.’

‘It’s the first time we have been here as a family. Hildegard is keen that Anna should keep in touch with her German heritage.’

‘Some exiles would prefer to forget that.’

‘I think my wife is of the belief that you can’t ignore history.’

Günter began to extemporise on a theory of social improvement, in which everyone strived for a future that evolved from the workers up rather than the aristocracy down. ‘You have to work with people who are all planning for a better tomorrow.’ He continued: ‘And this is not always clear. It is not just the politicians but the town planners, the people in construction, the police. We have to be consistent. Ideology is more important than money.’

‘Although money does matter, I suppose.’

Günter clapped him on the back. ‘A typical capitalist response. You must buy the next round of drinks!’

As the conversation wore on, Günter revealed his plan to take over the Pensionshaus Garni.

‘Wasn’t that once Thomas Pietsch’s hotel?’ Sidney asked.

‘Not any more.’

‘Does his son know?’

‘He will find out. He’s over there.’

Otto Pietsch was a large bleary-eyed man with sloping shoulders who had reached that stage in life when it was too late to reverse the process of letting himself go. He was with his friend Karl Fischer and a female drinking companion in a skimpy cotton dress that was a size too small for her. They were already half-cut, shouting out traditional banter to their friends: ‘Es trinkt der Mensch, es säuft das Pferd, doch heute ist es umgekehrt! Men drink and horses guzzle, but tonight we’re wearing muzzles.’

After half an hour, another of Günter’s friends, Rolf Müller, pulled up in a two-toned Wartburg police car. Sidney was worried they might have done something wrong, that they had all been too loud or too drunk, but he was quickly informed that they had not been loud enough, and that Rolf, an officer in the criminal investigation department of the Volkspolizei, was determined to enjoy his night off. Günter owed him money, he said, and he could start by paying off his debt in beer.

‘Tut den Durst nur immer löschen,’ he began to sing,

‘doch mit Wasser das laß sein.

Wasser das gehört den Fröschen

doch den Menschen Bier und Wein.’

Günter translated:

If quenching thirst is your sole aim

Then water will do you just fine.

But water belongs to frogs

While humans have beer and wine.

Sidney was uneasy. He could not quite believe the camaraderie that was on display. He felt that everyone was going through the motions of having a good time in order to avoid any true show of feeling; that those around him were willing everything to be all right even though they knew it probably was not.

He had seen this before, in England and in war-time: the hope that if you pretended that your morale was good then it might become good. There was something desperate about the night. Perhaps, he thought, it was because people worried that if they had stayed at home others might talk about them, report on their activities and arouse suspicion. They felt that they had no choice other than to be part of the show. Their forced conviviality was an attempt to demonstrate that they all belonged, that they were all in this great social project together, no matter what, hiding their terror of being exposed and alone for those rare moments of privacy in which no one could catch them out.

As he bought a round of drinks, Karl Fischer mumbled something about fate and death. Sidney couldn’t quite make out the sense; he was unable to establish if the man was even talking to him and the volume of noise made comprehension difficult, but he knew the words ‘Tod’ and ‘Schicksal’. He had heard them often enough. A few moments later, Günter leant forward and pronounced with an almost drunken melancholy: ‘Freundschaft ist weit tragischer als Liebe. Sie dauert länger. Friendship is far more tragic than love. It lasts longer.’

Sidney wasn’t sure these men were really friends: Günter Jansen, Karl Fischer, Otto Pietsch and Rolf Müller may have slapped each other on the back, given out drinking toasts and made their arrangements to see each other at the festival that weekend, but their comradely behaviour felt practised rather than meant, something they hoped might be true while knowing all along that it was no such thing.

Back at the Villa Friede, the children were incapable of such pretence. Any parental hope that they would play happily together soon proved over-optimistic. There was a valiant attempt at a family game of rounders on the beach, but the sad fact was that Jürgen was uneasy in other children’s company and preferred to construct things on his own with a soldering iron.

Günter gave his son the usual communist greeting on his return home: ‘Seid bereit.’

‘Immer bereit.’

Jürgen told his father that Karl Fischer had paid a visit earlier.

‘He didn’t mention that when I saw him.’

‘He came with a new transistor for the radio I am making. Then he talked to Mother. They told me to leave them alone. I asked Uncle Karl to help with my tape recorder but Mother wouldn’t let me so I watched them without them noticing. Mother likes Uncle Karl . . .’

‘We all like Uncle Karl, Jürgen. He is a very good electrician.’

‘Mother smiles when he comes and is sad when he leaves. I wrote it in my book. It’s like the one you have.’

‘Let me see it,’ said Günter. He turned to his wife. ‘I didn’t know Karl was here, Maria. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I didn’t know he was coming either.’

‘You were alone with him?’

‘Not for long. I am never alone. There is always somebody watching or wanting something.’ Her husband looked as if he might hit her, but before he could do anything Maria added, ‘And I never smile. You know that.’

‘Perhaps you should be flattered by the attentions of men at your age.’

‘I’d rather be on my own.’

She had just managed to settle the children down to bread, onions and Bratwurst and was not in the mood for a fight. As far as she was concerned, there were still nine days to go of this overpopulated intrusion. She just had to live through them.

‘Jürgen has been trying to record all our conversations on his cassette recorder,’ Hildegard announced in an attempt both to explain the situation and deflect from its seriousness. ‘It’ll be you next, Sidney. Anna’s bedtime story. He’ll probably want to record that too. Just you wait.’

‘Am I reading to her?’

‘You promised, remember? Every day of the holiday.’

Anna was at an open window, looking through her telescope at the night sky. Sidney watched as she began an imaginary conversation.

‘Hello, Mr Moon, how are you today?’

She answered herself in as low and booming a voice as she could muster. ‘I am very well. But what are you doing walking all over me?’

‘I wanted to see if you were made of cheese.’

‘I AM made of cheese.’

‘Can I eat you up?’

‘That would take a very long time.’

‘If I start eating you will I turn into cheese?’

Anna noticed her father was in the room but didn’t seem to mind. Glad of an audience, she carried on with the moon’s low voice. ‘Do you have a cat, little girl?’

‘No, I have a dog.’

‘Does he like cheese?’

‘I think he does.’

‘Does he want to eat me too?’

‘He’s not here at the moment. He’s in England.’

‘And where are you?’

‘I’m in Germany.’

‘Do you like Germany?’

‘I don’t think I do. I think I’d rather be with you, Mr Moon.’

Sidney said it was time for bed. Anna asked for his story and her father then made up a fairy tale about how the moon shone and moved through the heavens, how it was accompanied by individual spirits to keep it clean and how those spirits pulled travellers up into the night sky in their sleep, letting them dream the most beautiful dreams.

It seemed astonishing to be part of a time when you could look up at the moon and know, as you did so, that two American men were walking on its surface.

‘Are the astronauts there now, Daddy? Can we see them?’

‘It’s too far away.’

‘Can they see us?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘And will they see God?’

‘Perhaps, my darling. If they wait long enough.’

‘How long will that be?’

‘As long as a good night’s sleep. Close your eyes now.’

‘I don’t want to.’ Anna looked towards the doorway. ‘What’s he doing?’

Jürgen had been listening. He was holding out a microphone. He had not been able to understand the English (he learned Russian at school) and asked them what the story was about. When Sidney told him, he replied simply:

‘I’ve been to the moon,’ he said. ‘When I lived before.’ Then he turned and walked away.

Anna said that she was afraid of the boy. She didn’t like it in Germany. ‘You don’t either, Daddy, do you?’

‘I’m not sure. I think I am waiting to find out more.’

‘I’m worried all the time here, Daddy.’

‘It’s because you are not at home, my darling.’

‘Mummy says this is her home.’

‘She doesn’t mean that.’

‘What does she mean then?’

‘She is thinking what it was like for her when she was your age. It’s hard for you to understand.’

‘No it isn’t!’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does, Daddy. I’m frightened. It’s that boy. I don’t like him.’

‘Jürgen means no harm.’

‘But he’s scary, Daddy.’

Sidney gave his daughter a cuddle. ‘Don’t you worry. I will look after you.’ His daughter smelled of wool and warmth and milk. He remembered her as a baby. How much longer would she have such trust, such innocence?

Anna held on tightly to him. ‘I don’t like his dog either. Do you think a wolf will come out of the forest and eat him?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘But if a wolf did come and eat him you would be happy?’

‘I wouldn’t like to see that,’ said Sidney. ‘But I wouldn’t mind if that dog Franzi ran into the forest and never came back.’

‘But you won’t go into the forest, will you?’

‘I’ll only go if you come with me; and you must only go if I am with you. Is that fair?’

‘And when you tell me a story tomorrow night can it just be you and me?’

‘Of course it can,’ said Sidney, tucking his daughter in and realising, as he said this, that tomorrow they would all be at the Friendship Festival.

It took place at the northern end of the small town of Prora, the site of one of the most ambitious examples of Nazi architecture ever built; a three-mile-long series of hotel buildings erected between a long beach and a large pine forest. It had been designed to give twenty thousand workers a holiday every year but the war had put a stop to its construction and the project had never been completed. Two central blocks were currently used by the police and the East German army, but the bulk of the site had been left unfinished amidst the sand dunes, a Nazi white elephant that now served as a powerful demonstration of the folly of political grandstanding and social engineering.

Sidney and Hildegard walked through the areas that had not been sealed off by the authorities while Maria took the children to the beach to eat ice creams and build sandcastles.

‘Why don’t they convert all this and use it for holidays today?’ Sidney asked.

‘It would be too expensive,’ Hildegard answered. ‘It might even require a large amount of investment – or even private ownership – and that’s far too capitalist a concept for this country. You could talk to Günter about it. As an upstanding member of the Socialist Unity Party, he has the philosophy of collectivisation written on his heart.’

She explained that in 1953 there had been a concerted attack on private property during Aktion Rose, a government initiative to nationalise hotels and holiday homes.

‘One February night a total of four hundred police set off in buses from Rostock to arrest the biggest landlords. It was a deliberate attempt to scare off anybody with money or individual ambition.’

‘So how did Günter survive? He still has a hotel,’ Sidney asked.

‘Technically he doesn’t own it.’

‘It looks like he does. How does he manage that?’

‘Collusion,’ Hildegard answered. ‘You know the saying, “Wasser predigen und Wein trinken”: someone who preaches water but drinks wine? That is Günter for you. And he was lucky. There were snowstorms at the time of the raids. They slowed down the police’s progress and cut off the roads. Günter and his father were able to hide evidence and make their defence. Others were not so fortunate. But it is not a good idea to speak too much about this. You can observe everything that’s going on, but keep your thoughts to yourself.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Sidney.

‘This building may be a relic of the past, but people in the East only replaced one form of dictatorship with another. Many of the judges under National Socialism remained in their posts. Only the laws changed. Günter may laugh and joke and tell you all sorts of things but he’s a dangerous man.’

‘Really?’

Hildegard looked round to check who was near them and warned that it was possible they were being followed. ‘That man over to the right behind us.’

‘Where?’

‘Don’t look now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the shoes that give him away. He was watching us back in Binz. Now he’s tying his shoelaces. That has to be a message to another operative.’

‘Perhaps his laces have simply come undone.’

‘I don’t think so. There’s a man ahead who has just raised his hat. He’s probably going to take over. Günter could have arranged all this. He’s probably bugged the whole hotel.’

‘Including our room?’ Sidney asked.

‘And even his own. Why do you think Maria has the radio on all the time? Günter is an informer. He’s probably spying on his own wife. That’s why she answers him so provocatively. She is perfectly aware that other people can hear her, and she wants them to know just what she thinks about it all. Nowhere is safe to talk. Trust no one. Not even me.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Everything in this country is absurd, Sidney.’

‘So that’s why Günter has done so well for himself.’

‘As a good communist, he helped his father when private property was taken into public ownership. Even now, he must have the police in his pocket. But you must act as if you know nothing, and you cannot be too curious. In England, a question may be a form of politeness or a statement of interest. Here it is a form of attack. You need to be very careful what you say, Sidney. Don’t push it any more than you have already. I’ve got you out of prison in this country once before; don’t make me do it again.’

The Friendship Festival began with a parade of Young Pioneers paying tribute to their founder Ernst Thälmann and raising banners depicting a hammer and compass surrounded by a ring of rye. Jürgen sang a song about a little trumpet player who had communism in his blood and kept everyone’s spirits up with his socialist belief and his ready smile.

There was a gymnastic display, some track and field events, a family obstacle race, a tug of war and what appeared to be a showdown between a group of tractors designed to demonstrate the superiority of East German engineering. More bizarre, however, was a mass mock baptism during which groups of boys and girls were taken into the sea by a man dressed as the figure of Neptune. He was painted green, wore a fake beard and held a trident.

‘I don’t think you’d find this in the Church of England,’ said Hildegard.

‘Some priests do use the sea. But they draw the line at fake beards.’

‘The Bishop of Ely can be a bit of a show-off.’

‘I think he stops short of painting himself green.’

Jürgen recited a poem, ‘Neptune’s Prayer’, before he was dunked in the sea and christened Schleimige Seegurke, ‘Slimy Sea Cucumber’, which everyone found amusing. His mother and father applauded loudly when their son was presented with a certificate to celebrate a healthy initiation into the mysteries of folk tradition. Günter then left for celebratory drinks in the home of his great friend in the Volkspolizei.

Rolf Müller lived in a block on the resort grounds that had been originally designed as staff accommodation but now housed the police, officers of the National People’s Army and several local civil servants. In the early evening he took ‘the usual gang’ of Günter, Otto Pietsch and Karl Fischer back to his house for a carefully orchestrated celebration with schnapps and a crystal vodka known as ‘the blue strangler’. Despite a half-hearted invitation to include Sidney and Hildegard, it was pretty clear that this was not a night for outsiders, and the visitors were relieved to escape another evening of enforced jollity.

Günter was clearly in festive mood and told them not to wait up. He was planning to make a night of it and wouldn’t be back before dawn.

‘Will you be careful on the way home?’ his wife asked.

‘Don’t be so anxious.’

‘You are lucky to have someone to care.’

‘I always take the road along the railway line,’ Günter told Sidney. ‘It is completely straight. All you have to do is rev it up and keep on until morning. The motorbike does all the work. It knows where to go. There is no need for anyone to worry about me. The bike will get me home.’

*    *    *

The next morning they were woken with the news that Günter was dead. He had either driven off the road or been hit by a car that had not stopped. It was an accident, Rolf Müller informed the family. Every year there was some kind of fatality. It was tragic that this time the victim had been Günter. He may have been a big man but he had a very thin skull. He had not been wearing a crash helmet.

There were no witnesses, and the first motorist who had stopped confirmed that Günter was already dead when she found him in a ditch. Even though she was a nurse, there was nothing she could do. She thought he had turned over and gone into a tree. Rolf Müller was very sorry. Günter had been one of his closest friends.

Maria Jansen turned on him. ‘Why could you not look after my husband or save him from his drunkenness?’

Rolf replied, in as kindly a manner as he could, that Günter was not a man who could be told what to do.

‘Where was he found?’ Hildegard asked.

‘Just outside Binz. There is a blackspot. So many times this happens.’

‘He said the road was straight.’

‘There is a turn across the railway line; first right and then left on to the main road into town. We think he misjudged it in the darkness, lost control on the bend and went into a skid.’

‘What time do you think it was?’ Sidney asked.

Rolf Müller was surprised by the question. ‘I sent them home at three in the morning. Günter wanted to stay longer but we had all had enough.’

‘And it was still dark?’

‘Yes.’

Sidney persisted. ‘He told me that he would come home when it was light.’

‘He changed his mind.’

‘Was he very drunk?’

‘He was good at hiding it. Because he is, he was, so convivial, people could never tell.’

‘There was no rain last night, the roads were dry,’ Sidney continued. ‘And he knew that road so well. It’s very unfortunate.’

‘It certainly is,’ Müller snapped in German.

Sibilla Leber turned to her son-in-law. ‘You are being too nosy.’ Again, she used the word neugierig.

Hildegard put her hand on her husband’s arm and apologised on his behalf. ‘Sidney is upset when people die, needlessly, in pain and alone.’

‘As a priest he must be used to it.’

‘Every death is different,’ said Sidney. ‘And each one matters.’

Hildegard told Anna to play quietly in their room. She was going to have to support Maria when she broke the news to Jürgen but, at that moment, she was more concerned about her husband. ‘It could have been you, Sidney. You could have been riding with him. I cannot bear to think how he died.’

‘Pray for him.’

‘I am anxious about you. I am sorry that I have not been kind.’

‘Nonsense. You have behaved perfectly to all of us. This is your home.’

‘Coming back makes me nervous. I can admit that now.’

‘And now we have more important things to think about.’

‘One accident and everything is changed.’

‘I think someone must have hit him,’ said Sidney. ‘Even when drunk Günter knew the road too well to just veer off like that.’

‘If that was the case then why didn’t the driver stop?’ Hildegard asked.

‘He should have done. He must have felt the impact on his car.’

‘You are assuming it was a man? A woman found him. A nurse.’

‘Whoever it was, I suppose they will not have wanted to stop and spend any time with the authorities. If they had been drunk as well, then they would be charged. It’s just odd that it happened on such a straight road.’

Hildegard began to weep.

Husband and wife were silent for a while, holding each other and taking the news in when they heard Jürgen cry out. He was shouting that it couldn’t be true, his father was a brilliant driver; he had promised his son that he was going to live for ever. He screamed at Maria: ‘Someone has taken Father. I will find out who it was and I will kill him. I will kill. I will kill. I will kill.’ The boy banged his head against the door until it bled.

Anna started talking to the moon again.

‘Mr Moon, what makes you so bright?’

‘I have a light inside me.’

‘Do you ever go out?’

‘No, I don’t.’

She began to whirl herself round and round in circles. ‘I go round and round and round and round and round for ever and ever and ever and ever until everyone goes dizzy and falls down dead.’

And she fell to the floor.

Sidney and Hildegard attended Sunday morning service at the local Protestant church with Maria and Lena Jansen. Sibilla Leber had already been to the early service and stayed behind to look after Jürgen and Anna. The church was an austere late-nineteenth-century red-brick building resting on a hillock of woodland on the road to Putbus. The choir sang Bach’s Cantata for the Tenth Sunday after Trinity: ‘Behold and see if there be any sorrow like my sorrow’. Lena and Hildegard wept. Günter’s widow stared blankly ahead. She was so pale, so still.

Sidney prayed for the dead man’s soul, hoping his prayers would reach God in a country so hostile to belief. He wondered what price the priest had had to pay for accepting the notion that an alternative socialist heaven was being built on earth. What compromises did he have to make? Would it mean a double life? Was that the same kind of existence that Günter had led, pretending to be one thing while being another? As he contemplated the communion service he remembered Hildegard’s observation about their host’s hypocrisy: he preaches water but drinks wine.

Günter must have had enemies. But this was not the way to think, Sidney chastened himself; not now, in church, in a foreign land where no one wanted him to raise the questions he was burning to ask.

The music continued to tell the story of the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem. It was a tale of sorrow, sin and zealotry, exploring the tension between God’s anger and Christ’s mercy, and built up to a deluge of destruction and despair. The text, taken from the Book of Lamentations, spoke of punishment, judgement and storms of vengeance before a final sorrowful chorale asked that sinners should not be allowed to get away with their wrongdoing. It was a grim message for a Sunday morning, with a quietly prayerful ending, and the family returned home in an even more sombre mood than when they had left.

On reaching the sea front they found that Jürgen’s grief had manifested itself in the strangest of ways. He was sitting on the roof of the Villa Friede, refusing either to speak or come down.

Sibilla Leber was in despair. She had been so busy looking after the children she hadn’t even started on the lunch. ‘There is nothing we can do or say. I don’t even know how he got up there. I can’t see any ladder.’

Anna explained what had happened. ‘He keeps talking about a sparrow in a nest. I think he wants to be a bird.’

‘I will speak to him,’ said Maria. ‘Go inside, everyone. I think we need to be alone.’

It took her almost an hour. After she had persuaded her son to descend, Jürgen went to his bedroom, slammed the door and refused to come out. His mother left him some food on a plate. The family only saw him the next morning when he sat out at the front of the house with a tape recorder, listening to the same section of tape again and again, leaning forward with an earphone in his right ear. Play. Stop. Rewind.

Sidney asked the boy what he had recorded and what he was listening to.

Jürgen did not answer but concentrated on his tape. Perhaps he was listening to his father’s voice. Play. Stop. Rewind.

*    *    *

Maria told Hildegard that she was almost relieved her husband was dead. Now she didn’t have to worry what might happen to them all. The worst had happened now. People might even leave them alone.

‘Don’t say such things,’ Hildegard counselled, tacitly pointing out that the kitchen was likely to be bugged.

‘I can’t help it. I speak my thoughts. I can be less afraid.’

‘You have always dreaded such a time?’

‘I expected it would happen one day.’

Hildegard tried to comfort her. Maria had known love and it would come back to her. She would remember the best of her marriage, the happy times.

‘I am not sure I have ever known happiness. Günter took pity on me. That is all.’

‘I think it must have been more than that.’

‘His father insisted on our marriage. You had already married, Hildegard. My parents said it was a good idea. They thought I was the only suitable woman left for him.’

‘And you didn’t love him?’

‘I knew he still loved you; but I accepted him. I would be looked after. Everyone told me that. Even him.’

‘You have good friends,’ Hildegard reminded. ‘Otto Pietsch, Karl Fischer . . .’

‘Oh, friends. Yes, of course. They are supposed to bring comfort. Perhaps they will. Karl is always kind to me, it is true. He came this afternoon. That is one thing that will be easier, I suppose. His visits. Günter was always jealous, so suspicious. And there was no cause for him to be so. Karl and I are friends; that is all. He is someone I hope I can trust and in this country that is not always so easy.’

*    *    *

That evening, while walking on the beach where no one could overhear or record their conversation, Hildegard and Sidney discussed the accident once more. ‘I was wondering . . .’ Sidney began tentatively.

‘Go on . . .’

‘My father once had a motorbike with a sidecar, a second-hand Norton with a Swallow two-seater. I think he paid a hundred and seventy-five pounds for it. He let me have a go and it was heavy to handle, I can tell you . . .’

‘I know what you are saying . . .’

‘Quite hard to turn that lot over.’

‘Günter could have fallen asleep . . .’

‘Unlikely on a bend and with the breeze in his face.’

‘We don’t know he had that. In fact we don’t know anything.’

‘I just don’t think we’re getting the full story, Hildegard.’

‘In this country that is normal.’

They both knew that the dead man’s participation in the revolutionary socialist movement had garnered him enough medals to prove that he must have been a member of the Stasi. But surely he was not important enough for this to be some state-sanctioned murder? He was only der Hecht im Karpfenteich: a big fish in a small and fairly irrelevant pond.

They would have discussed Günter’s death further but they saw Karl Fischer approach. He was wearing dungarees and was carrying his electrician’s toolbox, telling them that he was on his way to help out a friend. He was reluctant to be dragged into a meeting but once he had been spotted there was no escape. Hildegard offered her condolences, saying she knew that Günter and he had been friends for a long time.

‘We were at school together. We both did well.’

‘Your fathers must have been very proud of you as you grew up,’ said Sidney.

‘We were proof of their beliefs; examples of good parenting, ensuring the health and happiness of the working class.’

‘Was it hard to live up to their expectations?’ Sidney asked.

Karl Fischer put down his toolbox. He could see that this was going to last longer than he had hoped but he didn’t want to appear rude. ‘Hans Leber was the great orator. Werner Jansen, Günter’s father, was more of a politician, like his son. He could play the game. The politicians liked him. When the party leaders came to Rügen they asked for Jansen’s advice.’

‘About what?’

Karl hesitated for a moment, uncertain where the conversation was leading and when he could move on. ‘They wanted to know how to make the island open and accessible to everyone; how to give the workers better holidays. Less private ownership. More state control. The Jansens saw to that. It wasn’t so hard.’

‘Some people found it more difficult,’ Hildegard observed. ‘I heard Otto was upset about the way in which everyone failed to support his father when he ran into all that trouble. I’m sure he must have talked to you about it, even at the festival.’

‘They lost their property. You know that. But Otto’s father was greedy. He didn’t reveal how much he had when they asked him for details. And so he was punished. Günter and his family couldn’t defend him without endangering their own security. Neither could we, I am afraid.’

‘Did your father ever see Thomas Pietsch in prison?’ Sidney asked.

‘Visits were not encouraged. Only his family went. But we all attended the funeral in the spring. It was a sad time. Now there’s another. We must look after each other in our grief.’

‘And you help Maria Jansen?’

‘I try to be a good neighbour. That is all.’ He stopped, hoping that his answer would be sufficient, but Sidney said nothing, forcing Karl to continue. ‘I don’t think Maria has ever been happy.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Hildegard asked.

‘You know the answer. Why do you make me say it? She knew her husband loved you.’

‘That was so long ago.’

‘It doesn’t matter. She never had any confidence. I once told her that she would look lovely if, instead of having her hair swept back so tightly, she had a fringe. It would be pretty. She told me that she was too angry to be pretty. Günter was a bully like his father. I hope Jürgen will not be the same when he finds a woman to love.’

‘Has Maria ever sought your help?’

‘What do you mean?’

What Sidney really wanted to say was this: ‘Did Maria Jansen ask you to murder her husband?’ But he could hardly do that now; even out on an open beach with no one close enough to overhear the conversation. Instead Hildegard explained that everyone was so upset about what had happened that they had started to come up with all sorts of theories. They were all highly improbable, she said. It was just that no one could quite accept that Günter Jansen, a larger-than-life jovial figure, had simply driven off the road.

‘You suspect something else? Something deliberate?’ Karl Fischer picked up his toolbox. ‘I believe that Günter was drunk. It was an accident. These things happen. Fate takes its course. If you think it is something else then you should talk to Otto. His father was the one who suffered at the hands of Günter’s family. I have to leave you now.’

Hildegard agreed with Sidney that Günter Jansen’s recent attempt to acquire a property that had once been the Pietsch family home could be seen as a provocative act.

‘We should see the widow, Sidney. I am sure Hanna Pietsch could tell us things.’

‘Would we need an excuse to go?’

‘My mother is already planning a visit. We just have to find a way of joining her. If her son has only recently found out how culpable the Jansen family were in putting his father in prison all those years ago, then he might have been angry enough to do something about it.’

‘And all the men were together that night. It could have been any one of them, I suppose.’

‘Karl has a soft spot for Maria, Otto may want revenge for his father’s imprisonment, Rolf is owed money. They also know each other well enough to create a conspiracy of silence. But Hanna Pietsch may tell us more. I’ll have a word with my mother.’

Sibilla Leber was immediately suspicious about the visit; why did Sidney have to come too?

Hildegard described her husband’s pastoral gifts and his interest in seeing all walks of life. The fact that Hanna Pietsch lived in social housing was a side of Germany that tourists never normally saw. A visit would, she said, be an exemplary demonstration of the care given by the communist party to the poorest members of society.

The Pietsch home was salutary proof of how far the family had fallen. Having owned a beautiful twelve-bedroomed Bäderstil villa in the 1950s, mother and son now lived in a concrete block of flats next to a fish-processing plant and a patch of industrial wasteland; reduced to two bedrooms with a tiny lounge and bathroom. Communal washing hung from a shared green, but the large discharge pipes from the factory that snaked around the building compromised any chance of clean air. Sidney thought it would have been hard to live with any pride in such a place.

Hanna Pietsch expressed her sorrow for Günter’s death, especially after such a happy night.

‘It was not so happy at the end,’ Sibilla Leber observed. ‘But fate punishes those who think they can defy it.’

‘I know they all drank too much,’ said Hanna. ‘My son could hardly walk when he came through the door. He slept for most of the next day.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘Otto has gone away for a few days. I am not sure where.’

‘What time did he get home that night?’ Hildegard asked.

‘It was already light. I think it must have been almost five o’clock. I heard him come in. He made such a noise.’

‘And he had been with Günter the whole time?’

‘Karl too. And Rolf. They are good friends.’

‘And do you know if they all left Rolf’s house together?’

‘So many questions,’ Sibilla Leber muttered.

Hanna was unperturbed. ‘I imagine they did. Otto often drives them all home. But his car was outside when I went to bed. I checked because I thought he was home already but he was not. Then I was glad he had not taken it. I do not like it if he drinks too much. I think Karl must have been driving them. They never tell me. He has a car too. He can afford a better model. He knows how to work the system.’

‘And Otto does not?’ Sidney asked.

‘He did not have such a fortunate start in life. It was hard for him to find work. The authorities thought we were decadent and so we had to look even poorer than we were. It was difficult to do this at first and then, in time, it became easier and easier. We became very poor. Otto still drives his father’s car. It is old, like me, and it keeps breaking down, also like me. It makes him so cross.’

‘Is he often angry?’

‘With his father for dying; and with me for living.’

Hanna Pietsch explained how they had stayed in the same flat for over fifteen years. It was not how they had once lived, but she could not complain and she did not want to draw attention to herself with the authorities, believing that the limitations on her freedom were mitigated by the fact that the state would always look after her.

Sidney was impressed by her forgiving attitude, considering what had happened in the past, and he said so.

‘You know about that?’ Hanna asked.

‘He knows about everything,’ Sibilla Leber interrupted, before muttering the word neugierig once more.

‘I suppose everyone has heard the story,’ Hanna answered, ‘even tourists like you.’

‘My husband is not a tourist,’ Hildegard pointed out, but it didn’t matter. Hanna Pietsch didn’t seem to worry who was listening to her.

‘Public shame, no matter how long ago, can never become a secret. Our lives are summed up in so few ways: Sibilla is the one whose husband was a communist hero; Günter was the one with the unhappy wife; I am the old widow whose husband was in prison.’

‘Did your husband blame anyone for his imprisonment?’ Hildegard asked.

‘It was only to be expected.’

‘In private, did he think Günter’s father was responsible?’

‘He didn’t like to see his friend profit at our expense. But you know what they say? Wo Geld kehrt und wendt, hat die Freundschaft bald ein End. All friendships soon turn cold when money is involved.’

Sidney took over once more. ‘Was your son aware of his father’s feelings?’

‘Otto did not know the Jansen family was directly responsible. He only found out recently, after my husband died. Someone told him at the funeral.’

‘And was he angry?’

‘I think so. But he didn’t behave any differently in public. Only at home. Emotion can be dangerous in this country. People do not like to talk about how they feel. It makes them vulnerable. Then others can take advantage.’

Sibilla Leber said that she was surprised Hanna was speaking so freely.

‘I am too old to care,’ the widow replied. ‘What can they do to me?’

‘Do you know where Otto is?’ Sidney asked.

‘He just said he was leaving for a few days. He wanted to get away. He never tells me where he is going. He doesn’t have to, I suppose. He is a grown man. That does not mean I do not keep the food ready for him. But it’s hard. Do you have a son, Mr Chambers?’

‘No. I have a beautiful daughter. Anna.’

‘My husband always wanted a boy but I think I would rather have had a little girl. They are better at looking after their parents.’

Sidney could see that Sibilla Leber was about to interrupt and contradict this statement but thought better of it.

Hanna Pietsch continued. ‘Now I am old I do not know what will become of me. It would be easier if I still believed in God but too much has happened for me to do that.’

‘He is still there,’ said Sidney, ‘waiting for you.’

‘I cannot hear him calling. Perhaps it is too late for his mercy.’

Sidney leant forward. ‘God’s love will not let us go. He is with us. His love surrounds us. His call still summons us.’

‘Then he may have to wait a long time. I’m tired now. I do not like these questions. Please leave me.’

As they left the building, Sidney put his arm around Hildegard. She was shivering. He saw how sad this visit home was making her. He wished they had not come.

The following day the Chambers family drove off to the Jasmund woods above Saßnitz to cheer themselves up a bit. Anna had been promised a trip to an enchanted forest where she could imagine all her favourite fairy tales with woodland settings coming to life: Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and Rapunzel. Hildegard said they would discover an almost holy wilderness, the true and ancient Germany amidst the high trees, shallow ponds and sunlit clearings. It would be their own adventure, just the three of them, alone and together in a homeland she had always known and loved.

She hummed the Bach chorale ‘Now all the woods are sleeping’ as she drove up the tree-lined hill on the edge of Saßnitz, passing a church that was almost entirely hidden by forestation. They then found themselves in a vast and eerie landscape, gravid with mystery and possibility. There were no lower branches on the densely planted beech trees; nor was there bracken on the ground to obscure the view. Instead, the forest stretched out before them, immense, unbounded and unknowable. There were paths to prevent them getting lost but it was difficult to tell where any of them led. There was no horizon; only an infinity of possibility. After walking for almost an hour, the family sat in a little hollow, enjoyed a picnic, and then lay down and looked up at the sky.

‘Hello, Mr Moon, when are you coming back?’ Anna asked and found there was an echo.

‘Hello, hello, hello. Mr Mooooooon!’

Overhead they heard starlings, jays, the odd crow, and, in the far distance, the cries and laughter of children sounding as if they came from another life, a previous generation calling back to them across time.

‘This is more like home,’ said Hildegard. ‘No people, no ideology, no conflict. A land that survives them all. This will still be here when everything else is past. Do you believe in the wisdom of the forest, Sidney?’

‘Isn’t the idea that people go into the woods to be tested in some way? They almost always get lost but they come out a different person. What was lost is found. You can’t get more Christian than that.’

‘It’s a risk, isn’t it? You may get lost and you might even die.’

‘But, as Shakespeare has it, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.’

‘If trees could speak . . .’

Anna was inspecting the hollow of a beech that might have served as the entrance to a magical underground kingdom. ‘Trees can’t speak, Mummy. Don’t be silly.’

Hildegard smiled and called back to her daughter. ‘I like being silly sometimes, Anna. Don’t you?’

‘Not all the time. That would be silly.’

‘So,’ Sidney concluded, ‘being silly all the time is silly?’

‘Yes, Daddy, but not as silly as you and your stupid questions.’

As they drove back, Sidney confessed that he was still troubled by Günter’s accident. The official account didn’t make sense.

‘It will be hard to contradict,’ Hildegard pointed out. ‘And it will be unpopular if you make your feelings known. The police are telling a very straightforward story. It was dark and late and it took place at a familiar blackspot.’

‘Jürgen suspects something,’ Sidney continued. ‘I feel sure of it.’

‘You think Günter was run off the road by someone he knew? By Otto? Is that why he has disappeared?’

‘Don’t you think that there is something wrong about the way the authorities have closed this without any investigation? They aren’t even looking for the driver.’

They passed the first sign for Binz. ‘Isn’t this the road where it happened?’

‘It is,’ said Hildegard.

‘Then can we stop at the site of the accident? There can’t be that many turns out of Prora. It’s only four or five kilometres.’

‘We don’t want to be questioned by the police.’

‘Humour me, my darling. Just for a moment.’

‘It may not be so funny if we’re arrested. They don’t need an excuse.’

‘We can pretend to be lost.’

‘On a straight road?’

‘Or to have broken down. It won’t take long.’

Hildegard pulled over. ‘Five minutes only,’ she said. ‘Come on, Anna, we’re going exploring.’

‘Is it a treasure hunt?’ Anna asked.

‘Yes. We need to find ten pine cones and three tyre tracks.’

Once they had got out of the car, Sidney made his first observation. ‘Günter would have had to stop to turn left.’

‘Unless he didn’t.’

‘But even if there was no traffic, he would have had to slow down when crossing the railway tracks. It’s hard to believe he could have been travelling fast enough to skid.’

‘I’ve got three pine cones already,’ said Anna.

Hildegard looked for evidence of where Günter’s bike must have ended up. At first they could not find any. Sidney suggested searching further up the road. Eventually, with Anna’s help, they found an indentation in the ditch.

‘I think that’s where a wheel’s been, Mummy. And there’s a piece of metal. Look, it’s a mirror . . .’

‘Well done, Anna. Now see if you can find some more cones.’

‘This may be part of Günter’s wing mirror,’ said Sidney.

‘That’s odd,’ Hildegard noted. ‘It’s before the turn.’

‘Unless he was going the other way?’ Sidney asked.

‘I think we have to assume he was travelling home.’

Hildegard thought out loud. ‘Which means that either he took the turn before or he was hit by a car coming from the opposite direction. He could have been knocked backwards and dragged along. If that is the case, we need to inspect the bike.’

‘Also,’ Sidney observed, walking to a narrow turning point by the railway line, ‘if he emerged here, instead, he still wouldn’t have had enough time to build up sufficient speed to lose control and kill himself. He was hit, I’m sure of it.’

‘Another piece of metal, Daddy.’

‘Good girl.’

‘But if it was deliberate,’ Hildegard replied, ‘whoever did it must have known exactly when and where Günter was going to be on the road. They could even have followed him . . .’

‘There could also have been a second driver.’

‘Do you mean Otto and Karl could have been working together?’ Hildegard asked.

‘And even with Rolf Müller.’

‘That really would mean trouble,’ said Hildegard. ‘We should get back.’

Anna had found seven more pine cones and declared herself the winner. She hoped they could have ice creams on the beach when they returned to Binz.

‘There is a phrase in German,’ Hildegard said, as she started the car once more, ‘auf dem Holzweg sein, which means “to be on the wooden path”. It comes from the idea that when huge trees fall in the forest their trunks open up a new way through the woods. Travellers follow it, get lost and end up nowhere. I think you call it “barking up the wrong tree”. I hope we’re not doing that.’

‘And is there a phrase for barking up the right tree?’

‘There is – auf dem richtigen Weg sein. We just have to find it.’

On their return to the Villa Friede, they discovered that Rolf Müller had paid a visit. Someone had reported that they had seen Hildegard, Sidney and their child ‘acting suspiciously’ on the main road. He now demanded that Mr and Mrs Chambers left matters well alone if they wanted to avoid arrest. Sidney did not like to ask on what charge, as he knew by now that anything could be made up to suit: spying, probably.

Günter’s motorbike was also available for collection from the Volkspolizisten. Maria Jansen could pick it up in exchange for a necessary payment, ideally in Deutschmarks, the West German currency.

She sent Sidney and Hildegard. Once they got to the station on Jasmunderstraße, Rolf Müller ticked them off for their curiosity and reminded the ‘honoured guests’ that the investigation had been concluded. Günter had driven off the road. No other vehicle had been involved. As they had suspected, it was a simple case of a drunken driver losing control at an accident blackspot. The bike was not in perfect condition, the tyre pressure was down, the brakes were worn, and there were plenty of scuffs and scratches from previous incidents which indicated that the victim was persistently reckless.

As Hildegard went to complete all the necessary paperwork and pay a fee, Sidney took a closer look at the bike. Most predominant were traces of pale-blue paint on the left of the back mudguard; if Günter had been driven off the road, this was the most likely colour of Trabi responsible: the same as Karl Fischer’s car.

He started working away with his fingernail and discovered what he thought were two different types of paintwork; both pale blue and dark green. Someone had gone over the original damage in order to disguise it. It had not been done well. This was either all too hasty or a deliberate attempt to incriminate someone.

Hildegard emerged from the office and announced that the bike would be returned later that day. Both the paperwork and the police inquiry were complete. Just before they left, however, Sidney could not resist asking Rolf Müller one last question. ‘Did you get your money?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I remember in the Bierhalle; how you told us all that Günter owed you money, but he could start by paying off his debt in beer.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘Perhaps it doesn’t matter.’

‘Those kinds of debts are cancelled after a death.’

‘What will happen to the Pensionshaus Garni?’ Sidney asked.

‘The one Günter was going to take over? It will stay within state control. No one will profit.’

‘There’s no chance of Otto Pietsch being able to look after it? It used to belong to his father.’

‘That is impossible. Why do you ask?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I think it does. I have noticed that you are persistent, Mr Chambers.’

Hildegard stepped in. ‘My husband likes to know how everything works. He is curious in that way.’

‘Politics is best left to the politicians: the Church to the clergy. Each have their own way of doing things, and if things are not explained that is not always so bad.’

‘I think it is better when everything is out in the open,’ said Sidney.

‘Do you really?’ Müller continued. ‘I thought priests preferred mysteries.’

‘That’s probably why he feels so at home here,’ Hildegard interrupted, keen to dilute the tension.

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ said Sidney.

‘Then it’s probably just as well that you won’t be here for much longer,’ Rolf Müller concluded. He began to move away, keen to get back to his work.

‘Could I ask one more question?’ Sidney pressed. ‘I think Günter Jansen’s body was found on the right-hand side of the road?’

‘That is correct; towards Binz.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. We drive on the left in England and so it is sometimes confusing.’

‘I am sure you don’t need to worry. You will not be doing much more driving here.’

‘I don’t intend to. It would be too dangerous. I just wanted to know, if the victim left the road and fell into the right-hand ditch, why the angle of impact on his bike is from the left? That would imply that someone hit him from the side as he crossed the road; quite violently, perhaps even deliberately.’

‘He fell to the right. There was no other vehicle involved.’

‘With the bike dented on the left.’

‘He must have turned over.’

‘With a sidecar?’

‘He was travelling at speed. We know Günter liked to drive fast. There is no mystery to this. It was late and dark and the man had drunk too much. He was keen to get home. He made a miscalculation. That is all. Please, no more questions. This is your last warning. My colleagues are not so tolerant of interference.’

Back at the Villa Friede, Hildegard tentatively asked Maria if she had seen Karl Fischer.

‘He came to offer his condolences.’

‘What about Otto Pietsch? Has he paid you a visit?’

‘He was not so fond of my husband.’

‘Did you ever see them argue?’

‘Once; after his father’s funeral. Günter said Otto was drunk, making accusations. He went to see him afterwards.’

‘Was it about the Pensionhaus Garni?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Günter was going to take it over. It had belonged to Otto’s father.’

‘Nothing “belongs” to anyone for long. Why does it matter now that everyone is dead?’

‘Because Otto seems to be missing. His mother doesn’t know where he is.’

‘Perhaps he has gone away.’

‘Would you know where?’

‘Karl might. They are friends.’

‘And would Karl tell you?’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because you love each other. You have no secrets.’

Maria almost smiled. ‘You think it is all as simple as that?’

In Jürgen’s room, Sidney tried once again to ask the boy about the night of the accident. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

Jürgen said nothing but handed Sidney an earphone. Once he had checked it was in his guest’s ear properly, the boy turned the knob of his cassette recorder. Play. Stop. Rewind. He had to go over the actions several times before Sidney could understand that he was listening to part of a conversation between Maria and Karl Fischer. They seemed to be talking about a sparrow or a starling, a Spatz, which could not find its nest. He would have to ask Hildegard.

‘Hat der Spatz seinen Baum gefunden?’ This was Maria’s voice. ‘Has the sparrow found its tree?’

And Karl had replied, ‘Ja, sein Nest ist am Boden. Yes, his nest is on the ground.’

That evening, Hildegard and Sidney visited Karl Fischer. He lived in a modern detached house, not far from the Villa Friede on the Wylichstraße, with the sea at one end of the street and a lake at the other. Three iron swallows decorated the frontage.

As they had suspected, Maria Jansen was already there.

Karl Fischer expressed his surprise but gave them a tentative welcome and asked them to sit down. Hildegard apologised for the intrusion. She and her husband just wanted to ask about the night of the Friendship Festival. There were a few things neither of them could understand.

‘Death is always hard,’ Karl replied.

‘But we wanted to ask about the living.’

‘It’s difficult to remember. Everyone had drunk so much.’

Sidney decided to take a risk. ‘I think you were sober enough to drive. You gave everyone a lift.’

‘It doesn’t really matter how we all got home, does it? The fact is that Günter did not.’

‘And I think you, and perhaps all your friends, know why.’

‘Of course we do. He drove off the road. The police inquiry has concluded.’

Hildegard hesitated. ‘Rolf Müller has told you. Already?’

‘It’s obvious.’

‘I am not sure that it is,’ said Sidney. ‘We looked at Günter’s motorbike and found traces of paintwork at the rear. We think he may have been hit by a green car.’

‘Mine is blue.’

‘But Otto’s is green.’

‘Then talk to Otto.’

‘He is missing.’

Karl sighed. ‘This really isn’t any of your concern, Mr Chambers.’

‘But it is interesting that you use the word “concern”. You have all been trying to make us think that if this ever became a case of murder then it would be motivated by revenge. Günter Jansen and his father were responsible for the ruin of Otto’s family. Otto Pietsch only discovered this recently, at his father’s funeral. He drives a green Trabant. Now he has disappeared. Why? Because his mother must have warned him this might happen. If anyone thought Günter’s death was not an accident then the Pietsch family would have been made a scapegoat all over again.’

‘Otto is probably in Berlin.’

‘It does not matter, because I think that you were driving his car on the night of the accident.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you decided to split the responsibility for Günter’s death.’

‘I don’t understand why you think any one of us would want to kill a friend.’

‘Let me try and explain,’ Sidney began. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me if it is true or not.’

‘I don’t see why we should listen to you,’ said Maria.

‘Have patience,’ Hildegard cut in. ‘It is probably safer to know what people are saying about you than not.’

‘Rumours never help anyone,’ said Karl.

‘You gave everyone a lift home,’ Sidney continued. ‘That you admit.’

‘I do.’

‘But you didn’t go home yourself.’

‘I didn’t?’

‘No, you did not; at least, not immediately. Instead, at Otto’s house, you switched cars. You got into his dark-green Trabant because everyone had seen you in your pale-blue car all night. Otto either knew exactly what you were doing or was too drunk to notice you take his keys. You knew that if there were green paint marks found at the scene of the crime, no one would think it was you because your car is blue; and if anyone did see a dark-green car then it would be easy to blame the Pietsch family because Otto had a motive for murder.’

‘This is not what happened.’

‘I think it’s close enough. You left well before Günter. Rolf Müller knew of the plan and detained him so that you had enough time to take Otto’s car and lie in wait. You parked just beyond the bend, out of sight, probably with your lights off.’

‘If I did that then I would be the one most likely to be hit.’

‘But you weren’t. I think you had some form of communication with Rolf Müller. He gave you a warning when Günter was leaving. You waited for him to approach the bend. As soon as you saw him you accelerated, hit him from the side, pushed him into the ditch and drove on, probably back to Rolf Müller’s house. He then reported on “the accident” and made sure that the evidence fitted the explanation. Otto is missing because his car is missing. He has taken it far away, probably with traces from Günter’s motorbike on the front left bumper.’

Karl Fischer was unmoved. ‘You’ve no evidence for any of this.’

‘We have your words. They are on Jürgen’s tape recorder. He liked to keep it running on record; something he probably learned from his father. He played me a little section. I had to ask Hildegard what it meant. Maria is heard asking: “Hat der Spatz seinen Baum gefunden? Has the sparrow found its tree?” And you reply: “Ja, sein Nest ist am Boden. Yes, his nest is on the ground.” The Sparrow was Günter’s nickname from school. You both knew he was going to die.’

‘That tape could mean anything.’

‘I think it is clear.’

‘Even if it is, who will you tell this fantastical story? Rolf Müller? He will be amused if this is your attempt to make sense of it all. Then, if you persist, he will be annoyed. And that won’t help you.’

‘I hope Rolf Müller will be chastened and pursue a conviction. And if he does, then you may not be so confident in your answers. We think he retouched Günter’s bike to add a little blue paint. Insurance, so that he could blame either you or Otto, whoever paid him least to keep quiet.’

‘You have been so inventive, Mr Chambers,’ Karl Fischer replied. ‘You have worked so hard when you should have been on holiday. It’s such a shame, and in such a beautiful landscape. You must have missed so much.’

‘I don’t think I’ve missed anything at all.’

Maria Jansen spoke at last. There was no point continuing, she said. It was one man’s word against another’s. Everyone at the Villa Friede would wonder where they were. ‘Anyone will think this story is crazy.’

‘You all worked together,’ Sidney insisted. ‘Otto Pietsch’s family was ruined by the Jansens and they have waited thirteen years for vengeance. Rolf Müller has bad debt, thought he was being outmanoeuvred by Günter’s corruption and made sure that he would profit from any “accident” and loss of property. And you two love each other.’

‘You would know our feelings better than we do ourselves?’ Maria asked. ‘How can you say such things?’

‘I am not judging you.’

‘But you have accused us. And I don’t believe you can prove anything at all.’

‘Günter’s death was an accident,’ Karl Fischer resumed. ‘If you suggest anything different we will make counter-accusations. We will create so many stories and so much paperwork that no one will ever know what truly happened. We might even find a way to make you look responsible yourself, Mr Chambers. You are a stranger and an amateur. No one will believe anything you say unless you would prefer to stay here for five or six years in order to try and prove your theory. Prosecutors and the police will give up. Nothing can be done. It’s too much work over the death of a man nobody liked.’

‘Günter always thought he was popular.’

‘He was deluded,’ said Maria. ‘He made everyone around him miserable.’

‘Not his son.’

‘Jürgen was afraid of him, just as I was. Neither of us ever loved him.’ She turned to Hildegard. ‘You know what it is like to be married to the wrong man.’

‘You don’t mean Sidney?’

‘No. Your first husband. The one who killed himself.’

‘He was murdered,’ said Sidney.

‘That was not the story we were told.’

‘Let’s not talk about this,’ said Hildegard.

Maria would not let her go. ‘You have found happiness. Why can’t I?’

‘I think you know the answer to that. You will find happiness only when you confront the truth.’

Karl cut in to prevent any admission of guilt. ‘The Jansen family started the treachery a long time ago. They used us all.’

‘And so what was,’ Sidney asked, ‘in one generation a tight group of friends becomes, in the next, a closed circle of deceit?’

‘You could say that. In fact you can say what you like. No one will listen to you.’

‘I wonder if you will be able to live easily knowing that this crime is on your conscience?’

‘I have conscience enough,’ said Maria at last. ‘Although I don’t feel any better; only that the pain cannot be as bad as it once was.’

‘People think that death will help matters,’ said Sidney. ‘That it brings on an ending. But it seldom does. The things that trouble us are the hardest to forget. If we do something rash, hoping a violent act will overcome a past horror, then we double the agony.’

‘Perhaps if I’d known you before,’ said Maria, ‘you would have told me. You preach the selfless life. And I know Jesus said we had to love our neighbour as ourselves. But so many people hate themselves; how can someone like me love their neighbour, or even their husband, if they cannot love themselves?’

‘By understanding that the greatest happiness often comes from outside.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘No,’ Sidney answered firmly, ‘it’s not at all easy to say, much less to practise. But that is what faith involves. It’s not only a question of belief in God. That may even be the easy bit. It’s faith in other people that counts.’

‘Even when they let you down?’

‘Especially when they let you down.’

‘And if they keep doing so?’

‘Sometimes you do have to walk away,’ said Sidney. ‘I know that. It’s not always a sin to give up on people – but it is to kill them.’

The ‘holiday’, such as it was, had come to an end. The Chambers family made their farewells and Sibilla Leber said that she hoped they might visit her in Leipzig for Christmas.

‘You know how you always loved it as a child, Hildegard. You were so excited when your Advent Calendar came and I remember how you used to fill your shoes with grass so early for the Feast of St Nicholas. One year you even filled them twice, hoping that he would come back and put sweets in them all over again!’

‘I know, Mother, you say this every time I come home; but Trudi did that. Not me.’

‘I wouldn’t be guilty of such a mistake. We could make Stollen and gingerbread houses and dress the tree with the family decorations. Anna would learn about our traditions and sing carols as they are supposed to be sung – in German.’

‘Christmas is difficult for us, Mother, as you know. It is a busy time of year for Sidney.’

‘He can’t be in church all the time. Indeed, from what you tell me, he is not there very much at all. I am surprised . . .’

‘You could always come and stay with us,’ Sidney interrupted gallantly.

‘I prefer my own home. But it is kind of you to offer,’ Sibilla Leber replied. ‘I know you don’t really like coming here.’

‘That’s not true, Mother.’

‘I am sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Forgive me.’ Sibilla was suddenly tearful. ‘I don’t always remember that I have two daughters. You are so far away. And I do like seeing my little Anna. She is growing so fast. She reminds me of you, Hildegard. She has the same imagination. I hope you are proud of her.’

‘We are.’

‘Don’t spoil her. She needs discipline. When will she start the piano?’

‘Next year, I hope.’

‘That’s good. One family tradition will continue at least. Please don’t make it such a long time before you come back, my beloved. If it’s for my funeral I shall be very angry.’

The Chambers family took an evening train to Lübeck, crossed the border, and travelled back into West Germany as night fell. Sidney was glad to be on his way home at last but fretted that things had been left unfinished. Justice had not been done. Hildegard tried to console him by saying that he couldn’t be expected to win every battle, especially in a foreign land.

‘And remember, those students in Cambridge avoided punishment when that necklace was stolen. You turned a blind eye there.’

‘That was theft rather than murder and they were young.’

‘Is morality relative?’

‘I think punishment should fit the crime. But in this country there are so many laws it’s hard to keep track. Everyone is so watchful, so suspicious. Even when people are supposed to be enjoying themselves they aren’t able to relax.’

Anna slept on her mother’s lap and the train sped on towards Hamburg. Hildegard asked why her husband thought himself so responsible for the happiness of others. Some people were never going to be content. It was a delusion. Why expect them to be something that they could never be?’

‘Because I am a priest. I have to believe that we can all be redeemed.’

‘I am not sure Maria will ever be convinced of that, despite her faith. Some people cannot escape themselves.’

‘Have you ever felt like that?’ Sidney asked.

‘During my first marriage, yes, towards the end; and sometimes in the past, during the war. But let’s not talk about that now.’

‘Coming to Germany has made me remember all over again how different our lives were before we met. I think it was listening to Bach last Sunday, sung in German in a German church as it would have been two hundred and fifty years ago. I try to keep in mind the fact that you haven’t had an easy life – not since you were a child.’

‘After my father died. That’s when so many children grow up; when the first parent goes, no matter how old they are. It happened much earlier to me. I am not alone in that.’

‘No, but then there was the war.’

‘And after it, I took some risks,’ Hildegard admitted. ‘I left my homeland to form another life. I do not like to complain. I always have music, just as you have faith. That is my consolation. And everything has been better since I met you . . .’

‘As it has been for me.’

‘And as it could be for Maria if they all escape justice.’

‘Do you understand what it must have been like for her?’

‘I don’t know, Sidney. I don’t think I have ever had such desperation. But that does not mean I do not have moments of loneliness. Sometimes I have to submit to the sadness and let it pass. They are not because of anything you have done. They just come.’

‘There are times when I don’t quite know how to help,’ Sidney replied, ‘and I leave you to your piano or your thoughts. But I am sure I should do better. Priests are like doctors. They often neglect those closest to them.’

‘When you are exiled from your own country and then come back, as I have done, you feel that you are a stranger in both places: too German for England and now too English for Germany, or whatever country my homeland has become. And I am not a proper communist, like my father, in spite of what everyone thinks. I look at the GDR and I see what is happening and I do not feel his successors are doing such a great job. I don’t think that this is what he imagined when he fought and died for the cause thirty-five years ago. And so I cannot help but feel separated from all that hope and history. My mother is the same. She won’t admit it . . .’

‘She has to keep the flame alive.’

‘It’s hard for her, Sidney. You think she does not like you but you should not worry about that. If I had married Günter it would have been the same. She has never liked anyone who is not my father. And he was not a saint, never mind what she says.’

‘I wish I had met him.’

‘I wish you had too; and I sometimes wish I had known you earlier. But then we were different people and we may not have loved each other. So perhaps it is just as well. You can be a different kind of hero to our family, Sidney . . .’

‘I think heroism is dangerous.’

‘Don’t worry. You are far from being one in the traditional sense.’

‘What about the untraditional?’

‘There is still hope. Look at Anna sleeping. We must be her anchor.’

‘And we will be,’ Sidney promised. ‘Both of us.’

They looked out of the train window to see a firework display over Hamburg. It was as if people were sending their own miniature rockets to the moon, bursting with light and transient colour. ‘Do you think we will ever have a normal life?’ Hildegard asked.

‘Not a chance,’ her husband replied. ‘Do you want one?’

‘Not in a million years.’

Hildegard smiled, took her husband’s hand and studied it. ‘If only I could tell our future.’