“‘Sir, the man was living in a state of advanced solipsism. He had sealed himself off from me and the rest of the world.’
“‘Not true. Every day he was at a bar on Prenzlauer Allee, drinking with three of his friends. We have their names here.’
“‘But if you ask any members of our crowd in Prenzlauer Berg . . . ’
“‘Ah yes, your crowd. The “artistes” of Kollwitzplatz. A group of unconstructive, unproductive dilettantes, living off the state, and complaining endlessly in private about the unfairness of their lives. Your crowd.’
“He reached for his cigarette case and fished out another cigarette. He didn’t offer me one.
“‘Now let me ask you this: you said earlier that your husband shut himself off from the world, talked stupid politics, but really had nothing to do with the forces that would happily destroy our Republic. And you also said that his proclamations in front of the Berliner Ensemble were the ravings of a lunatic. But did you know that this “lunatic” informed us that he was an American spy?’
“‘Of course not. And given his fragile mental state, it’s clear that this is more of his ravings.’
“‘I didn’t realize I had asked you for your interpretation of the situation.’
“‘Excuse me,’ I said, hanging my head lower.
“‘The fact is, your husband may have been outwardly delusional to you—but we also know that he contacted a member of the United States Information Agency staff at the US embassy in Berlin; an agency that is a front for the CIA. And they did have two or three meetings at an allegedly secret location near Friedrichshain.’
“The sense of shock I was feeling had now deepened to alarming levels. I raised my hand, asking to speak. Stenhammer nodded his assent.
“‘I just don’t see what sort of information Jurgen could have given the Americans, given that he hardly moved out of Prenzlauer Berg and . . . ’
“‘That doesn’t really matter here. The fact is, your husband had made contact with agents of a foreign power hostile to the German Democratic Republic. He was observed and photographed meeting this “gentleman” here within this city. That makes him a foreign spy who has committed treason against the Republic.’
“He let that sentence linger in the air, then reached for his Marlboro and took a deep drag off it, allowing a tense theatrical silence to fill his office. Then he finally said:
“‘But I don’t believe that this information is actually news to you. On the contrary, I am certain you are now feigning shock and horror because it allows you to cover up the other major “truth” of this situation—and one that your husband admitted under interrogation yesterday.’
“‘What truth is that, sir?’
“‘The fact that you too are an American spy.’
“I felt a horrified shudder rumble across me.
“‘That’s a complete lie, sir. A total, terrible lie.’
“‘You are accusing me of lying?’ he said, his voice remaining insidiously calm.
“‘Of course not, sir. I am accusing my husband of lying.’
“‘Naturally, you would accuse him of that. And let me guess, you are going to now tell me that this comment was that of a deranged lunatic who is divorced from reality, except that we do have photographic evidence of him meeting American agents.’
“‘But that doesn’t mean that I . . . ’
“‘ . . . was in any way involved in such a business?’
“‘Do you have any evidence that I was? Photographs of me meeting an American agent?’
“‘What did I tell you about not interrupting me, or acting like it is you who has the right to pose questions? You have no right whatsoever. And as someone accused of treasonous behavior . . . ’
“‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ I wailed.
“‘Our interview is now over,’ he said, pushing a button on the nearby telephone console.
“‘What is happening with my son? I have to see Johannes. I simply must.’
“‘As I said before your son, Johannes, is being cared for by the state. And he will remain in the care of the state until you reveal everything to us about your dealings with the Americans.’
“‘There were no dealings with “the Americans.” I’ve never even met an American.’
“‘And your husband says otherwise.’
“‘My husband is demoniacal.’
“‘You husband is an American spy. And so are you.’
“‘I am not an American spy,’ I screamed.
“There was a knock on the door. Stenhammer said, ‘Enter.’ The same hardened woman prison guard was there. ‘I am done with this prisoner,’ he told her. ‘But she needs to be properly photographed now.’
“‘Please, sir,’ I cried. ‘I beg you . . . my son is the only thing I have in my life.’
“With a dismissive wave of the hand, Stenhammer signaled that the woman should take me away.
“‘I have to see him, sir. I can’t live without him.’
“‘When you give me the answers I demand, we can further discuss this. Until then . . . ’
“‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’
“Stenhammer swiveled his chair away from me, showing me his back. I cried again, ‘You have to believe me!’ But the guard was now strong-arming me and marching me out the door. I was weeping hysterically. Once we were in the corridor, with the interrogation room door closed behind us, she slapped me hard across the face.
“‘You stop that hysterical self-pity now,’ she said, digging her fingers into my arm. ‘I hear another squeal out of you, there will be serious trouble.’
“She kept the pressure on my arm as she steered me along the corridor, stopping only to pull the cord and let the other guards know we were en route. We turned up some stairs and I was brought into a room, bare except for a stool on a small wooden box, behind which was a gray curtain. In front of this was an old-fashioned camera on a tripod. An officer in a uniform came out and ordered me to sit on the stool. He then stood behind the camera and told me to face front, barking at me to sit up straighter and look more directly at him. Then, his hand on a long cord, he depressed the shutter release. At that very moment I felt a strange wave of heat hit my back. It was so disconcertingly warm that I found myself squirming on the seat. The officer ordered me to be still, then had me turn sideways for a profile photograph. Once he depressed the shutter release the heat hit me again, this time on the side of my body facing the curtain. Now he commanded me to swivel around so he could photograph the other side of my face. Again the shutter button was depressed. Again there was this whoosh of heat enveloping the side of my body away from the camera.
“When I was returned to my cell ten minutes later I lifted up the top of the uniform and saw red welts on both sides of my midsection. Craning my neck I could also see a pronounced redness stretching down my spine, or, at least, as far down my spine as I could see. What had been done to me during that photographic session? But this concern was overridden by a far larger fear—the fact that Jurgen had set me up as his accomplice. And what I couldn’t figure out was whether this was an act of maliciousness on his part, or just a further example of his derangement. What I did know was that the Stasi would now use our son as a negotiating tool, and that I would have no chance of seeing him unless I gave them what they wanted. What Stenhammer wanted, no doubt, was the names of all the alleged American agents with whom Jurgen told him we were consorting. The problem was: as I had never made contact with any American agents, how could I give him names or details of what they demanded of me in the way of information or intelligence? Yet I also simultaneously knew that, even if I invented an entire fictitious scenario about secret rendezvous with CIA operatives, they would run scrupulous checks of everything I told them. And they would undoubtedly use my ‘treason’ as a way of keeping me apart from Johannes. Stenhammer understood I had already grasped this scenario; that I had figured out there was no way out of all this; that even if I gave them everything they wanted, it would be a lie, because I was never a CIA stooge. I am pretty damn certain he had ascertained that I had no espionage credentials whatsoever. But Jurgen had said something that had incriminated me. According to Stasi logic, you were guilty
even
if you were innocent. They had decided that my cohabitation with a mentally unstable man who peed on the Minister for Culture—and may have tried to contact the Americans—was cause enough to ruin my life.
“I also realized very quickly that Stenhammer was determined to break me down and make me malleable in his hands. How did I know this? Because after our first ‘interview’ I was locked up for three straight days without any contact, except the occasional visit by a guard with a food tray. Yes, I was allowed one hour of exercise per day, but this entailed being led outside and locked up in a concrete cube, around five meters by two meters. The walls of this cube were three meters high, and were covered by barbed wire. I was left to my own devices during this hour in the great outdoors. I was never one for exercising in the past. But now I started running back and forth like a lunatic, deliberately trying to exhaust myself, to sprint so hard in this limited space that I would—so I imagined in my delirious moments—burst through the walls and be free of this place. This reverie was simply one aspect of the psychological meltdown I was experiencing. Besides locking me up for twenty-three hours a day, they were also denying me any outside stimulus. No radio, no books, no writing materials. Nothing but my thoughts. I did devise strategies for keeping my mind active. I would replay films, frame by frame. I tried to mentally categorize every word in English I had learned to date. But my thoughts were endlessly dominated by my son. You cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be deprived of contact with the child who is the center of your world. The sheer visceral, tactile need to hold him close, to smell that still new-minted,
undamaged by life
aroma which seemed to emanate from Johannes’s every pore, the inability to hear him cooing, to bring him into bed with me when he cried in the middle of the night. For me this was the most extreme punishment imaginable.
“When, after three days, they finally brought me back for my second interview, I was so psychologically destroyed, so manic from lack of sleep and rampant claustrophobia, so desperate to do anything necessary to get myself free and back with my son, that I sat down and accepted one of the colonel’s very good cigarettes and his excellent coffee, and asked him to turn the tape recorder on, as I had a confession to make. He obliged, and I launched into this highly researched spiel about being approached in a bookshop on Unter den Linden by a man I called Smith who informed me that he would be willing to pay me fifty dollars a week in hard currency if I would slip him information.
“The story sounded ridiculous. As soon as I opened my mouth, I knew how implausible it seemed. After five minutes, Stenhammer quietly said, ‘That’s enough,’ and turned off the machine. Then, turning to me with an amused smile, he said:
“‘You want your son back, don’t you?’
“‘More than anything in the world.’
“‘Then you have to tell me the truth.’
“‘But you know the truth, sir.’
“‘Do I?’
“‘Yes, I think you do. And the truth is: I never had any contact with any Americans.’
“‘Then back you go to your cell.’
“‘You have to believe me,’ I said, my voice straining.
“‘You keep telling me this. I don’t have to believe you at all. In fact, I don’t believe you whatsoever.’
“Another three days in the cell, twenty-three hours a day locked up, no reading material, no outside stimulus whatsoever. I started thinking about killing myself, how I read somewhere that if you drenched a bedsheet it wouldn’t snap when you fashioned it into a noose. Maybe the Stasi had ways of reading my mind as well, as the morning after I first thought of this a guard came and took away the thin sheet covering the bed. When Stenhammer saw me again three days later, he smiled and offered me a cigarette and a cup of coffee. He was back in Good Cop mode. As always they both tasted wonderful and slightly lifted my mood.
“‘Now I am certain you are wondering how you can get yourself out of here,’ he said.
“‘What I am wondering most of all is about the welfare of my son.’
“‘That is not a worry, as I told you before. He is being looked after by an excellent family.’
“‘Who are they?’
“‘That’s confidential information. But I know the family—and I can reassure you that Johannes is receiving all the love and care that he needs.’
“I felt a chill run through me.
‘But I know the family
.’ That could only mean one thing. He had been placed with a Stasi family. This, in turn, meant that they would be even more loath to ever return him to me. And Stenhammer—still smiling sympathetically at me, the bastard—knew that this little tidbit of information, couched in such vague language, would be a knife to the heart. When I bowed my head and started weeping, he acted all concerned.
“‘Have I said the wrong thing?’ he asked.
“‘I’m never seeing him again, am I?’
“‘I’ve never said such a thing.’