Midnight Hunter

I choose this.

It’s hard to track my progress in the low light. I keep waiting to come up against a brick wall diving one attic from the next, but I don’t. They are all connected like Frau Fischer said, one long open space that goes on and on. The balls of my toes grow sore from treading the narrow beams. I try to gauge how many apartment lengths I’ve come—when I spot it. A solid wall. Does it divide one apartment building from the next or is it the exterior wall? Am I over the empty apartment? I should have thought to count the trapdoors as I went, but I was concentrating on not falling. I’m standing over a trapdoor now and, paralyzed with indecision, I just stare at it.

My legs start to shake and I either have to go back or lift that trapdoor. Praying that it’s the empty apartment and I’m not about to peer into someone’s living room, I ease that trapdoor open. And breathe a sigh of relief. I’m over an empty room and there are rat droppings on the carpet. I’ve never been so happy to see rat droppings.

I drop down to the floor as silently as I can and make my way through the empty apartment to the back door. I can unlock the door from the inside and I find a piece of discarded cardboard, place it over the latch and wedge the door closed. When I return all I’ll have to do is push the door open to let myself back in, but from the outside it will look secure.

Finally out in the night air I stand in the darkness of the spiral fire escape for a moment, just breathing. So far so good. But how much time has that taken me? Reinhardt could be far away by now.

The Trabant is parked around the corner and once my feet are on the ground I walk quickly along the laneway and out onto the side street, keeping watch for guards and Volkspolizei. I spot the car parked beneath a tree which is just beginning to bud with spring leaves. Feeling for the keys I find them atop the driver-side wheel, just as Peter promised they would be, and in that moment I want to hug him. My little mantra, So far so good, grows stronger.

But once I’m sitting in the driver’s seat I become paralyzed again. What now? I didn’t think this far ahead because getting out of the apartment without being seen by Reinhardt’s guards preoccupied all my thoughts.

I’m no good as a spy. This is too nerve-wracking. My heart starts to race but I force myself to take another deep breath. First things first: I need to be able to see the front door of his building when he leaves. Starting the engine I ease the car forward, the headlights off. The car makes a loud put-put sound and I cringe, certain someone is going to become suspicious about what I’m doing.

I park at the end of the street where I can watch the front door and switch the engine off. The clock on the dashboard reads five minutes past eleven. If Reinhardt’s going out hunting it will be in the next hour. There’s nothing to do but sit and wait, and feel the cold seep into my bones.

Finally I see his tall, uniformed figure striding down the front steps of the apartment building and making his leisurely way to the Mercedes. Light from a streetlamp glints on the silver buttons of his double-breasted coat. I start out of my slouch and reach for the ignition—but stop myself just in time. He’ll hear me if I start the engine now, and my stomach quails at the thought of him turning and seeing me sitting here in the shadows.

I wait until I hear the purr of the West German car and see the red flash of parking lights before I turn the ignition. When he peels out of his parking space I count to three and then do the same. He drives fast, much faster than I was expecting, and he’s disappeared round the corner before I’ve driven six feet. I put my foot on the accelerator and the car whines in protest.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, coaxing a little more speed from the cold engine. I turn a corner and find the street ahead of me is empty. When I reach the next junction I look left and right but those are empty, too.

“Scheisse.” At random I swing the wheel to the right and drive as fast as I can to the next corner, but there’s no sign of the black car.

I’ve lost him.

I drive about for a few minutes hoping to catch sight of him but my heart is soon pounding in fear. This is too reckless. I run the risk of being stopped by the Stasi or driving straight into Reinhardt if I crisscross the streets aimlessly. Reluctantly, I turn back towards the apartment and park the Trabant, feeling very disappointed about my failure.

Getting back into the empty apartment is easy, and so is stacking up a few packing cases so I can get into the attic. I’m soon back in my bedroom. In the stillness and silence of the familiar surroundings I realize how tightly wound I am. I can’t get my heart rate to slow down and adrenaline makes me pace up and down the room. Finally I lie flat on my back on the floor and take deep breaths.

Tonight was a waste of time but at least I know my plan can work and I didn’t get caught. Tomorrow I can try again and I’ll be better prepared. I will do this.

But the next night I wait in the Trabant for two and a half hours and Reinhardt doesn’t appear. At half past one I give up, chilled to my bones and feeling teary from exhaustion and nerves. As I trudge back to the empty apartment and let myself in I think how much I hate this. How does Reinhardt do this day in, day out? Even get excited by it? The subterfuge, the sneaking around. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t have to do any of the sneaking himself. What he does is proudly proclaimed by his uniform and he gets others to do the sneaking for him.

The next night is another fruitless wait, but on the fourth he appears at a quarter past midnight. I turn the ignition of the Trabant as soon as I see the Mercedes’ lights come on—but the engine only sputters. I turn it again and again and watch in despair as the black car slides around the corner and out of sight. There’s no point trying the ignition again. I’ve flooded the engine. Tears prickling in my eyes I make my way inside, not knowing how I will keep doing this night after night only to face disappointment. I consider going to Peter and begging him let me do something else for the group, but I know he’ll refuse. Oberstleutnant Volker is too dear a prize.

On Friday evening as we’re getting into the car outside Stasi HQ Reinhardt touches the back of my cheek with his gloved fingers, an expression of concern on his face. “Are you feeling ill, Liebling? You are pale.”

I look down quickly, knowing there are dark smudges beneath my eyes. I’ve always needed a solid eight hours of sleep and it’s showing that I’m getting barely half that at the moment. “Yes, fine. Just not sleeping very well at the moment.”

He opens his mouth to speak again but I push past him and get into the car. I’m a terrible spy. I’m the worst spy.

Reinhardt must say something to Frau Fischer that evening as she stays later than usual and gives me a mug of hot beer to drink after dinner. “Hot beer will cure any cold or fever,” she tells me, standing over me as I drink it.

What it actually does is make me sleepier than I can ever remember being and I nod off on the couch. Sometime later I wake to find Reinhardt gently shaking me and helping me to my feet. Once I come to I push him away and stand up by myself. He protests, but I make my unsteady way to my room alone and close the door. I don’t bother going out at all that night, though I feel guilty about it as I fall asleep.

Over breakfast the next day I start to worry he’s becoming suspicious. It’s Saturday, which means he actually sits down and eats something, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him watching me narrowly.

When he gets up for his cigarettes he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you feeling better, Liebling?”

I shrug him off. “Yes, I’m fine. I told you, I’m just tired not sick.”

Unable to bear being near him I retreat to my room and close the door. Partly from exhaustion and partly from despair, I get back into bed and close my eyes, willing the world to go away.

I sleep for a little but when I wake up I feel worse, not better. I’ll be rested enough to follow him tonight, assuming he goes out, but thinking about sitting for hours in that cold Trabi casts a pall over my already low mood.

There’s a soft knock on the door and, thinking it’s Frau Fischer with mo