The Other Side of Silence

Fifteen minutes later I was back in front of the monk, who stared at me with polite indifference, as if he’d been watching a dull game of cricket. When I sat down the monk stood up slowly and from a wallet file removed some papers and then placed them on the table in front of him as if they were evidence. I couldn’t yet see these clearly from where I was sitting but I had a strong idea that they were to form the basis of some serious accusation against me that might easily cost me my liberty or my life. In the monk’s hand was my passport. The one Erich Mielke had given me.

“You are Walter Wolf,” he said. “And you work at the Grand Hotel in Cap Ferrat as the hotel concierge.”

“Yes. And I must protest. Why have you brought me here?”

“But that’s not your real name, is it? Your real name is Bernhard Gunther, is it not?”

“No.”

“Your real name is Bernhard Gunther and this passport was provided by the state security service of the German Democratic Republic, also known as the Stasi.” His tone was almost apologetic, as if he regretted bringing me inside on such a warm day.

“No.”

“You are in fact an agent of the Hauptverwaltung Aufklarung, the foreign intelligence service section of the East German Ministry for State Security. Is that not so? You work for the Communist HVA, don’t you, Herr Gunther?”

“No.”

“Before this, you were an officer in the Nazi secret security service. The SD. But in nineteen forty-six you were a prisoner of war at the MfS prison camp at Johanngeorgenstadt in East Germany, where you were first recruited to the Stasi.”

“No.”

“It was the condition of your release from that prison camp that you should work for the Stasi, was it not?”

“No. I was a POW, yes. And they-I don’t know what their names were-they did ask me to work for the Stasi. I refused. But later on, I escaped.”

“Escaped? That was very intrepid of you,” said the monk.

He was tall, blond, well spoken, with a deep, mellifluous voice, and now it seemed the look of a very old schoolboy, or perhaps a young schoolmaster, and certainly not a spy-there was nothing athletic or physical about him. A killer he was not; this man had been chosen for his intelligence instead of his ruthlessness. Unlike the two thugs from Portsmouth, he was more used to punching holes in paper than in the faces of men. A lot of the time he remained silent, puffing his pipe, as if he was offering me the opportunity to provide a better answer than the inadequate one I’d given. I’d have preferred someone who was a violent bully, who shouted at me and slapped my face, the kind of interrogator who tries to beat and sweat the truth out of you. You knew where you were with an interrogator like that. But this one would try to be my friend and make me dependent on him, psychologically, until he became Jesus-my only source of salvation and redemption.

“There weren’t many German POWs who were imprisoned in Russia and East Germany who escaped from labor camps, were there? To my knowledge, hardly any at all.”

“I don’t know. Not many, perhaps. I saw an opportunity and took it.”

“You were lucky, Bernhard.”

“I’ve always been lucky.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“I’m here, talking to you, aren’t I?”

He smiled and looked at his fingernails before relighting his pipe.

“One might say that the kind of luck you enjoyed was very much the kind described by Seneca,” he said. “A case of opportunity meeting preparation. Your opportunity. But it was almost certainly someone else’s preparation. Erich Mielke’s preparation.”

“Seneca? Who’s he?”

“A Roman Stoic and an adviser to the Emperor Nero.”

“That’s a relief. I thought he might be another East German spy I’m supposed to know.”

“It’s interesting. You ask who Seneca is. But you don’t ask who Erich Mielke is.”

“I assume he’s not a Roman Stoic.”

“No indeed. Comrade General Erich Mielke is the deputy head of the Stasi.”

“I’ve not heard of him. But then I haven’t lived in Germany for several years.”

“He’s a Berliner, just like you, Herr Gunther.”

“I don’t care if he’s from Fucking, in Austria. You’ve made a mistake. I’m not whoever it is you think I am. I was helping you people, remember? You’ve a strange way of showing your gratitude. And I really don’t have time for this. I’d like to leave. Now.”

“We’ve got plenty of time. I can assure you.”

“In which case, might I have some water and a cigarette?”

The monk nodded at one of the thugs, who stepped smartly forward, as if he’d been on the parade ground, put a cigarette in my mouth, lit it with a cheap lighter, and then fetched me a glass of water.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now, where were we? Oh yes. I was telling you I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong man. That much is obvious, anyway.”