“Of harassment, stalking even. Kurt Bauer, the big industrialist, I’m sure you’ve heard of his company. Your shaver probably has his name on it.”
“Or my latest shipment of heavy water.”
Hermann laughed.
“Yes, that too.” Then he eyed Nat carefully. “Government work, you said?”
“Let’s just say I have an understanding with regard to reimbursement and a rough arrangement on how to share any results.”
“Your government has never liked Kurt. Mine’s not keen on him, either. His dabbling in nuclear materials made everyone nervous. Although I gather Pakistan quite likes him. Is this what concerns you, or are your interests confined to your usual area?”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing I can discuss, Christian.”
“But you’re working with Berta, which must also mean the White Rose. Interesting.”
“You said there were complaints. From Bauer himself?”
“His lawyers. People like Bauer never file their own complaints. A court issued some sort of restraining order.”
“You’re kidding.”
“An exclusion zone, one hundred meters.”
That would explain Berta’s interest in long-lens photography.
“Did it stop her?”
“His lawyers said it didn’t, although at least she no longer rang his doorbell or staked out his parking space. But he wasn’t the only one who took her to court.”
“There were others?”
“A White Rose survivor in Duisberg, some old Gestapo people, even a few Americans who served with the occupation forces. Come on, you really haven’t heard about this?”
“It’s not like she’d be eager to tell me.”
“No, I mean from your colleagues at Wightman. One of her targets was Gordon Wolfe, your very own… well, whatever you’d call him after he, uh…”
“He was my mentor. It’s still okay to say it. We made our peace, just before he died.”
“Died? Gordon’s dead?”
“A week ago. His heart.”
“I had no idea. My condolences.”
“Thanks. But Gordon was one of the complainants?”
“Oh, yes. He said she had followed him for days at a time.”
“Good Lord.”
“Yes. Not very smart, making people think we’re a bunch of lunatics here. Still, she might have weathered the storm if it hadn’t been for the Stasi file.”
“The
Hermann nodded glumly.
“I am afraid so. Berta was an informant.”
Nat’s heart sank. In latter-day Germany there were few things more damning, or more fatal professionally, than being outed as an informant for the East German secret police. It was a catastrophe, the sort of revelation that might explain a lot-bulimia, stalking, obsession-all her possible pathologies. But even then Nat couldn’t quite believe it.
“How is that possible? She was fifteen when the Wall came down.”
“I know. That’s what made her case so remarkable.”
“The good Pioneer,” Nat mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“She told me about her childhood. Laughed about what a good little Commie she was.”
“Apparently that included spying on her parents.”
“She informed on
“With the best of intentions, of course. Or that was her defense. Trying to reform them, protect them from the authorities. You know, there is a summary of it around here somewhere. One of the department gossips, Professor Schneider, finagled a look at the report and did a synopsis, which she distributed to all our mail slots.”
“How sweet of her.”
“Yes. Heaven help anyone who gets in Schneider’s way. I think Berta bedded one of her boyfriends. Now where did I put that thing?”
Hermann yanked open a drawer. Papers flew out like cloth snakes from a clown jar.
“Ah. There it is.”
It was crumpled, and stained with coffee rings, but Nat spotted Berta’s name.
“Yes,” Hermann said, reading it over. “Mostly family members. Schneider did us the service of listing them, although she was of course polite enough to substitute initials for the forenames. ‘To protect their identity,’ she said. Here, take a look.”
Nat checked the names first:
F. Heinkel, father.
J. Heinkel, mother.
H. Heinkel, grandmother.
L. Hartz, family friend.
“Apparently she never reported anything major,” Hermann said. “ ‘Daddy criticized Chairman Honecker at dinner.’ That sort of rot. The lovely Frau Schneider claimed Berta’s grandmother suffered genuine repercussions, but she never dug up the details. Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”
“Berta said she was quite fond of her grandmother.”
“All the more reason to keep her on the straight and narrow, then. Love does strange things to people, Turnbull, especially in the German state of mind.”
“Spoken like a true German.”
Hermann smiled crookedly.
“It is my patriotic duty as a historian to speak poorly of our national character.”
“Pretty easy to do so in Berta’s case. How did this come to light?”
“An anonymous letter to the department chair. A photocopy of her file was enclosed.”
“You think Bauer sent it?”
“It’s what everyone suspects. But she already knew the file existed. She told Schneider she had gone to see it herself, a year earlier.”
“Isn’t that about the time she went off the deep end?”
“Yes. I suppose she realized it would eventually become public.”
Maybe, Nat thought. Or maybe the file’s contents, rather than its mere existence, sent her into a spiral.
“Can I copy this?”
“Keep it. I should have thrown it away ages ago.”
Nat could request the whole file if he wanted. Stasi records were stored right across town. But there was no guarantee he would be allowed to see it. Bauer certainly shouldn’t have qualified, but people like him always found a way around the rules. Even if Nat got permission, he would have to wait weeks, even months. More to the point, it was a sideshow. Gordon Wolfe and Kurt Bauer were still the main event.
“So tell me, Turnbull. How on earth did you get mixed up with Berta Heinkel?”
“By reading her credentials on your goddamned Web site, for one thing.”
“Oh, dear. We should fix that. Although officially she is still employed. You know how slowly these things go, and the chairman has managed to keep everything out of the papers. Of course, that will change once the firing becomes final. They’ve scheduled disciplinary hearings, but she has petitioned for delays. Health reasons, she claimed.”
“Mental, no doubt.”
Hermann laughed, spluttering beer onto his shirt front.
