Fiona Rintoul from The Leipzig Affair
Inside, the apartment is stuffy and crammed with ornaments. Among the glass animals and porcelain ladies you spot a number of Party gongs. Perhaps this is what is known as a safe house: a normal apartment loaned to the Stasi by its owner for meetings. Probably this one belongs to a Stasi widow. “Please go through,” the tall man says, holding open the living room door. On the brown vinyl sofa sits Pankowitcz. Next to him is your father. Your father stands up. “My dear,” he says. Pankowitcz shifts in his seat and coughs. “Please sit down, Frau Reinsch,” says the tall man, indicating a free armchair. Please. It’s the second time he’s said that. You drop into the vinyl armchair, which feels unbelievably soft and comfortable. He called you ‘Frau’. You smile. Frau. It sounds so friendly, so nice. And you know then that it’s true. What you suspected when the photographer winked at you. You are no longer a prisoner. You are to be released. “Ahem,” says Pankowitcz. “We have some important information to convey to you, Frau Reinsch.” He forces his big, ugly face into a neutral expression, then tells you what you already know. The interview is brief. There are documents to sign. The tall man explains what each one is before you sign it. Confirmation that your personal items have been returned to you. Confirmation that you agree not to disclose any information regarding the location and conditions of your detention in return for your early release. Your father smiles encouragingly. He has organised this, pulled strings at the Ministry for State Security. That is very clear. “Sometimes western journalists – ” he begins. “The enemies of socialism are cunning,” says Pankowitcz. “Therefore, silence is mandatory.” Silence is mandatory. Your father looks nervous. Perhaps he thinks you will resist this demand. If so, he has no idea what you’ve been through. “I understand,” you say and sign the paper. The tall man picks it up carefully and places it in a file. “For that same reason there can be no question of an exit permit,” Pankowitcz says, shifting his thick lips into a smile. “In case any such notion had entered your head.” You shrug. Leave. Stay. What does it matter? The conversation you had with Dieter in Café Riquard is like a whisper from another world. You no longer dream of visiting Paris or London. A walk in the park, a cup of good coffee, a warm soak at the public baths: those are the things you dream of now. The tall man slides another document on to the coffee table. “Your new identity card,” he says. You stare at the photograph. It was taken this morning. Perhaps they developed it while you were waiting in the unheated room. You haven’t seen a photograph of yourself in a long time. You wonder if you recognise the girl in the picture. Yes and no. Then you notice a mark in the top righthand corner of your new ID card: M12.
Pankowitcz follows your eye. “This particular kind of identity card must be renewed every twelve months,” he explains. You nod slowly. Your father looks at the carpet then at you. “It’s a small matter.” “Quite so,” says Pankowitcz. “If everything is in order, it will be a straightforward procedure.” You look across at the imitation fireplace that dominates the room. It’s crammed with photographs of a young man, presumably the Stasi widow’s son. As a small boy. In the uniform of the National People’s Army. In a lounge suit with a girl in a white dress on his arm. You’ll never get a job with this ID card. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. What kind of job could you do anyway?