Stealing the Future by Max Hertzberg Read Free Book Online Page A

making.
    Stayed? Like you? And what are you doing now?” She was angry, her words sharp with barbs. “What’s your contribution to the glorious revolution? Get off your fucking high horse. You, you spy! That’s what you are, creeping around, look you even have a sad trenchcoat! A spy, no better than the fucking Stasi!”
    This had to hurt. The angel watched my face become hard, my eyes glaze as I absorb the shock.
    “You don’t mean that.”
    “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? They got rid of the Stasi, and they realised they still needed it, so they asked the sheep to put on the wolf’s clothing, didn’t they? The Minister of the Interior himself, good old Benno, he was the one who asked you! Didn’t he?”
    “No! You know that’s not how it was. How it is. You know!”
    “So if it’s not true, what exactly is it you do? I mean, I have no real idea what my own Papa does!”
    “You do know, I’m with the RS.”
    “Yeah, but I mean, it’s just another of those weird combinations of letters that could hide anything! Tell me, tell me what it is you do? What have you been working on this week, yesterday, today?”
    I could have told her about the Russian major, made her laugh about the Stalin toast and my summary dismissal from his presence, but my mind seemed stuck on the Maier case. I recalled that feeling of fear that I’d experienced on the way back from West Silesia. It was a fear that I hadn’t had to feel for a few years—I used to know it so well, this extra sense, almost anticipating it, welcoming it. An old friend. You knew where you were with that fear. It was from the days when we didn’t know whether the Stasi were listening, whether the Stasi were watching, whether the Stasi were coming to get us. It reminded me of why I was doing stuff, back then. Daring to disagree, to find out about stuff the state didn’t want us to know. But nowadays it just made me feel sick.
    “It’s… It’s confidential. I can’t tell you. Sorry,” it sounded lame, even to me, even without my angel’s ears listening to my own words. But I couldn’t share this with Katrin. She was safe now. Here, in Westberlin.
    “You know what, it’s all rubbish. All shit. You and your new society, based on trust and openness and honesty ,” this last bit in a different voice, sarcastic. “And there you are, in your secret job, doing secret things for the secretaries in the secret ministry!”
    I just sat there, head sagging, face inches from the table.
    “Shit. Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a lecture in half an hour.”
    I didn’t look up as Katrin stood up, put her coat on, gestured to the waiter and paid. She looked at me, I could tell, even though I was still glaring at the table, shoulders hunched inside the trench coat. Without another word she turned, and left the café, swiftly negotiating the chairs and tables, away from where I was still slumped, fingertips just brushing the cassette on the table.
    I nudged the cassette round so that I could read what was on the label. It said simply: Thanks , with a smiling acid face drawn next to the word. Sliding the tape off the table and into my pocket, I moved towards the door. Nowhere near as elegant as my daughter in completing this manoeuvre, bumping into tables and the backs of chairs, drawing questioning looks from the chattering students. I was no longer at home in a young persons’ café. When did that happen? Or was it my clothes, my hairstyle, my smell; identifying me as from the East? I made it to the door in one piece, and hoping to make an exit without causing any further scenes, I pulled the door open. Too hard: it slammed against the coat stand behind it, and I slid out, not looking back to see what the students thought of my awkward exit. There, to one side of the door, stood Katrin.
    “Katrin! Oh–”
    “It’s OK, I’m going already.”
    “No! I mean, please. Wait. You’re right. I should share more. Open up a bit. One more chance?”
    Katrin