Midnight Hunter

Got you.

I’m an exceptional Stasi officer and a good East German. I devote my energy and skills to the State and ask nothing in return.

It’s time I had something in return.

I set off after her, walking quickly, mapping the streets in my head and attempting to predict where she’ll go. Not toward her apartment building. Not toward the Wall. She’ll attempt to get out into the countryside or she’ll try to hide. I smile as I see the telltale marks of hesitation in the snow, her footprints going first one way and then the other. My quarry is frightened. I quicken my pace, closing in on her.

Don’t you remember what they call me, Fräulein Daumler? I am der Mitternachtsjäger, and you are my prey.

I always catch my prey.

Chapter Four

Evony

I can’t stop shaking as Volker leads me along the street, one of his large hands clamped to my shoulder. If this was any other Stasi officer I would presume he was taking me to Hohenschönhausen, the Stasi prison, for questioning. But der Mitternachtsjäger could be taking me anywhere.

I could die tonight. But that’s just if I’m lucky. The shivers that are wracking my body suddenly double. Volker stops walking and he pulls me to a stop.

“You are cold, Fräulein.”

To my amazement he unbuttons his long, double-breasted coat and drapes it around my shoulders, the thick woolen fabric swamping me. His eyes trace the curves of my face as he tucks the heavy coat around me and I don’t like his bright, hungry expression.

He holds out a gloved hand, inviting me to keep walking with a polite smile. “Bitte.”

We walk, his hand heavy on my shoulder once more. I’ve never worn a garment like this coat, so beautifully tailored and made from such fine wool. It’s warm from his body heat and smells of male, though not any male I’ve smelled before. The men I know reek of cheap cigarettes, sweat and engine oil. Volker smells like rich, spicy aftershave, soft leather and something faintly smoky and comforting, like open fires or cigars. It’s the scent of hypocrisy. Volker is sworn to protect this so-called classless workers’ paradise but does he live like a worker? No, he’s our tailored and manicured jailer.

It’s laborious to walk as my knee hurts so badly, making me limp, but Volker doesn’t seem to be in a hurry now that he’s caught his prey. I can’t help but wonder about the others, hoping some of them got free. No matter what he does to me I shan’t tell Volker anything about my friends. They won’t suffer just because I was caught.

But when I see the gleam of a large black car ahead and the uniformed chauffeur getting out to open the rear door, my resolve crumbles. Volker’s going to take me away somewhere and I’ll never see anyone I love ever again. I can’t bear the thought of pain. I’m terrified of the unknown.

“Wait,” I cry, the word tearing from my raw throat. I stop short and turn my face up to his. The white light of a streetlamp illuminates the left side of his face, but the right is left in darkness. “I know you have to take me, but please, arrest me, send me to prison. I will do the time, five years, ten. I will plead guilty. Just don’t hurt me.”

He raises a hand to stroke the back of his gloved fingers against my cheek. His mouth with its full lower lip is softened by an apologetic smile. “Oh, no, Liebling. I’m afraid I can’t take you to prison.”

Liebling. Darling. He says it tenderly, and even the touch of his fingers is tender. Stupidly I remember how I thought he’d look pleasant when he smiled. He looks more than pleasant. Volker is handsome. Far too handsome for a monster. There’s no cruelty or evil lurking anywhere in his clear, open features. He’s looking at me at me like a lover might.

What sort of madman is he?

Volker is clearly insane, and wherever he’s taking me there won’t be the harshness and isolation of prison at the end of the journey, but something far worse. My eyes flick to one side. I could run. Shrug off this coat and bolt. But I remember his cold, impassive face as he shot Ana and I know he won’t hesitate to do the same to me.

Death would be a gift. Run. Run!

But I can’t do it. I’m a coward and I can’t.

The driver is waiting, standing to attention by the open car door. My throat tight with tears I allow Volker to help me into the car. He gets in beside me and the driver closes the door, shutting me inside this polished metal and leather cell.

We drive in silence through the streets of East Berlin. I’m hyperaware of Volker sitting at my side on the broad leather seat, one long leg casually crossed over the other. I don’t notice where we are going. I huddle in his coat as if it’s able to shield me from him. Light from an occasional streetlamp slides across his face, which is cold and hard once more as he looks out into the night.

Some time later—five minutes? Thirty?—the car glides to a halt. I keep my eyes down. It doesn’t matter where we are.

Volker gets out and helps me out of the car, holding tight to my arm. If I run he’ll have to shoot me and I sense he doesn’t want to kill his quarry. He wants to play with his prize first.

We walk through a low gate and then up some stone steps. Volker opens and closes a door, and then we walk up more steps, broad and carpeted, the pile thick and richly patterned. One flight, two, three. Another door is unlocked and he impels me through it. There are polished boards beneath my feet now. Confusion is starting to worm its way through my terror. What manner of dungeon is this?

Volker takes his coat from my shoulders and I brace myself, expecting cold air to bite into me, but wherever we are it is warm. I feel his eyes examine me minutely, taking in my black woolen stockings that I dislike for being so itchy; the scuffed navy coat; the snarl that my dark curls have become. I am cold, wet, thin and pale, more like something the cat has chewed on and became bored with than a dangerous enemy of the State.

“Take off your coat, shoes and stockings and put them over there.” He points toward a side table by the door and I do what he says, but it takes longer than it should as my fingers are clumsy with cold. I drape my coat over the table and place my shoes beneath it, lining them up neatly. I take my time, delaying the inevitable. I have to reach up under my skirt to my garter belt to take off my stockings and I don’t want to do this in front of him. I’ve never taken off any sort of intimate garment in front of a man and I don’t want the first and last to be Oberstleutnant Volker. I glance around to check where he is and I’m relieved to see his broad back on the other side of the room. He’s stoking a fire, one hand braced against the chimneypiece.