The Valkyrie Song

3

Sylvie Achtenhagen decided not to drive to Berlin. Instead, she caught the S-Bahn from Altona into Hamburg’s main railway station and then took advantage of the gleaming new high-speed train that connected Germany’s two biggest cities.

It took just over an hour and a half to get to Berlin. The weather had stayed bright and cold and Sylvie watched the flat North German landscape slide by, occasionally going through the notes she had made.

Much like the train she had just travelled on, Berlin’s Main Railway Station was a statement: a promise about the future. Only two years old, the station was now a major Berlin landmark: a weaving of metal and glass on a monumental scale. It said very clearly to the world that this was, after all, the very heart of a new Europe. Sylvie made her way through the main concourse and out to the taxi stand.

‘Where to, love?’ asked the driver in a thick Berlin accent.

‘The Birthler Office.’

‘Off to see your file, are you, love?’

The Birthler Office, or BStU, was shorthand for the headquarters of an organisation whose name needed to be abbreviated: the Federal Commission for Preserving the Records of the Ministry for State Security of the German Democratic Republic. Its abbreviated form took its name from the serving Federal Commissioner, Marianne Birthler.

It took only fifteen minutes to get to the Birthler Office and after waiting a further ten Sylvie was greeted by a gaunt-looking man in his early fifties who introduced himself as Max Wengert. Wengert explained that he worked for the department that dealt with media requests for access to files. Sylvie, as a familiar face from television, was used to people reacting differently towards her than perhaps they would normally. There was something about Wengert’s broad smile as he greeted her that suggested smiling was not something he did often. In that greeting, she recognised someone she could probably manipulate to divulge more information than he should.

‘It’s so kind of you to take the time to help me with this, Herr Wengert.’ Sylvie smiled sweetly as he guided her into an interview room. ‘Personally, as it were.’

‘I have to admit to being something of a fan of yours.’ He smiled again and exposed tobacco-stained teeth. Sylvie imagined him sitting alone in some tiny Berlin flat watching her on TV. She embellished the image a little too much and felt a shudder of revulsion. But she hid it well.

‘Were you able to find out anything about the name I gave you… Georg Drescher?’ she asked.

Wengert pulled the chair out from the table in the interview room, inviting Sylvie to sit. His long grey face took on a conspiratorial expression.

‘Actually, Frau Achtenhagen, it’s quite a coincidence — you are the second person to enquire about that name this week.’

‘Really? Who was the other enquiry from? Was it another broadcaster, or a newspaper?’

‘Neither.’ Wengert looked unsure for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it does no harm to tell you. No, it wasn’t actually a media enquiry. It came from the police. The Polizei Hamburg.’

‘I see…’ said Sylvie. ‘Did they say why they were interested in Drescher?’

‘No, they didn’t. I couldn’t help them. And I’m afraid I can’t help you. We do know from other files referring to him that he did exist, but Major Georg Drescher does not have a personal file that we can trace. Nor can we find any other file of a significant nature with reference to him or his activities. All the mentions we have of him are in minor files where he is, sometimes literally, merely a footnote.’

‘Isn’t that — well — odd?’

‘Far from it, Frau Achtenhagen. The Stasi had masses of files, millions. Every report from an unofficial collaborator was written up, indexed and filed. Take the personal files on individuals: there are six million of them. Out of a total population of, what? Sixteen million? That means there’s a lot of inconsequential stuff in there. But the important stuff — the big secrets — a lot of that was shredded or removed. Towards the end of eighty-nine, beginning of ninety, the Stasi saw the writing on the Wall, if you’ll pardon the pun — added to which there were thousands of civil-rights protesters outside waiting to get in to tear the place apart and get their hands on the files, which they did on the fifteenth of January. I would imagine it must have been mayhem in Stasi Headquarters in the days and hours before the protesters got in. When they did they stopped the destruction of the files, but a lot of the more incriminating material had already been shredded. We recovered nearly seventeen thousand sacks containing nearly fifty million shredded pages. And we’re still trying to put them together. But that’s not the whole story. In amongst those civil-rights protesters who broke in were members of the American CIA, who helped themselves to some of the most sensitive information. They wanted to get their hands on lists of agents working in the West. And I would also guess that in amongst the protesters there were more than a few Stasi agents and informers trying to get to their files before anyone else.’

‘And you think that’s what happened to Drescher’s files?’ asked Sylvie. ‘That he’s managed to wipe his existence from the records?’

‘Maybe, but not necessarily. We are still trying to put the shredded and hand-torn files back together. It was only last year that we developed a computer-software system that can reassemble the pages digitally and speed the whole process up. Even with that, it’s going to take us until 2013. But you can be very sure that there will be some nasty surprises along the way — a lot of former Stasi agents and informers won’t be sleeping too easily in their beds, I’ll tell you that. Maybe Drescher’s files are somewhere in there, waiting to be put together.’

‘If they’re here at all.’ Sylvie let out a long breath in disappointment

‘There is something else…’ Wengert leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘You know that the BStU is going to be absorbed into the State Records Office? It’s because of the Hans Hugo Klein investigation. It showed the level to which the BStU has been infiltrated by ex-Stasi — people who could be working inside here to hide or destroy the files we’re supposed to be protecting and reconstructing.’

‘So maybe Drescher has a friend in here?’

Wengert shrugged. ‘Who knows? Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

‘What about the other names I gave you?’

‘Well, unless it is related to your personal file, if you have one here, or unless it is demonstrably in the public interest, I’m not supposed to release that kind of information.’

‘Herr Wengert…’ Sylvie smiled at the official and watched him melt. Men were so easy to manipulate. ‘Would I be right in saying that you were one of the civil-rights activists who stormed the Lichtenberg Bastille?’

Wengert beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I was.’

‘Then you are clearly a man who stands up for what is right. Who cares about the truth. And you’ve said yourself, this place is probably lousy with ex-Stasi scum. How can we get to the truth if we play by the rules and they don’t? I promise you that the people on the list I sent you are not the ones I want to expose. I just want to talk to them, that’s all. But they may lead me to Drescher. And he is someone we should care about. I am not asking for you to compromise your ethics, Herr Wengert. I’m asking you to stand by them.’

Wengert stared at Sylvie, an inner struggle obviously going on behind his dull eyes. He stood up, decisively.

‘Wait here a moment, please,’ he said, and left the room.