The Puzzle People

By Kingstone Media

In 2002 Kurt Hilst and Anna Robinson are assigned to begin piecing together documents found after the East German police began shredding documents after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. They encounter and follow two couples whose lives were changed forever by one of the most dramatic events in modern history in August 1961—the rise and fall of the Berlin Wall. They also uncover a deeper story of a fragmented country, fragmented relationships, and of four people trying to put the pieces back together. The Puzzle People is a story of love, heroism, and the ultimate divide—murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingstone Media
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781613280126

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Stone"

1

East Berlin

December 1961

Katarina Siemens settled in behind the wheel of the Austin-Healey Sprite, a two-door British roadster. With the car in idle and her cousin Hilde sitting beside her, Katarina ran her hands across the red steering wheel and admired the sleek dashboard. There was only one disadvantage to the small sports car: It was a convertible, and that would make her an easier target for the border guards.

But it had to be a convertible. Her plan would not work any other way. In fact, her plan would not work with any other car that she knew of. It had to be a low-slung sports car, and the Sprite lived up to its name. It was tiny. But equally important, it had a detachable windscreen. The roadster was bright red, and it had two perfectly round headlights perched on the front hood like frog eyes.

It will be wonderful having you on our side of the Wall, said Hilde as the early evening gloom settled on East Berlin. Just be safe.

Thanks for renting this car, Katarina said with a grin. I’ll try to return it without too many bullet holes.

Hilde’s smile evaporated, and she stared back at her cousin hard. Are you sure you want to do this?

It’s safer than swimming the Spree. You know that Udo drowned when the Vopos opened fire and he had to dive deep in the cold water.

Just because it’s safer than swimming the river doesn’t make this a smart choice. There are other options. Are you sure the car is small enough to make it?

I think so. If I’m wrong, I’ll lose my head.

Don’t joke about that.

Katarina reached out and took her cousin’s hand. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

You better be.

And when I arrive in the West, maybe I’ll own a car like this.

It’s not the Garden of Eden, you know. If being a West German guaranteed riches, I’d own two of these cars. In truth, I can barely afford to rent this one.

And I’m going to pay you back.

Just arrive safely, and that’ll be payment enough.

The cousins leaned back in the car seats and listened to the sounds of the city. East Berlin was quiet compared to its western counterpart, with very little traffic on the streets, especially in the evening hours. A truck roared in the distance, in dire need of a new muffler, but it had little competition from any other sounds.

Does Stefan know? Hilde suddenly asked.

Katarina felt a stab of guilt. No. You’re the only one who knows.

Why not ask him to join you?

He’d try to talk me out of escaping.

You think so?

"I know so. Stefan plays it safe."

Hilde wiggled the radio knob, trying to locate a West Berlin station but failing. She flicked it off, preferring silence over East German radio.

You’ll meet another cute guy in West Berlin, Hilde said. I’ll take you to some dance halls, and they’ll flock to you. They always do.

No, but thanks. I’m counting on Stefan to cross the border and come after me. I’ll be the lure to draw him across.

Ah.

Katarina took a deep breath, ran a hand through her short black hair, and revved the engine. She had a striking resemblance to the popular actress Audrey Hepburn—luminous large eyes, thick arching eyebrows, and an almost-elfin face. She denied any similarities whenever people made the comparison, but that didn’t stop her from styling her short hair in the Audrey style. Tonight, she even wore a black turtleneck sweater, another Hepburn flair.

Dim lights cast a meager glow on the rubble-strewn gray lot. Earlier in the day, Katarina had set up a makeshift obstacle course of sorts—piles of bricks and other debris. It was time to put the car through its paces.

You want to go along for the test run? she asked.

Hilde leaned back and laughed. Floor it, cousin.

Katarina put her foot to the accelerator, and the Austin-Healey Sprite took off like a rabbit, screeching across the pavement. Hilde screamed in delight. When Katarina reached the first obstacle that she had laid out in front of her—a circular pile of bricks—she swung the steering wheel to the left and the car responded instantly, tires squealing. Laughing out loud, she leaned into the next turn, taking the car to the right, and the Sprite weaved around another obstacle. It was slalom skiing on wheels. Hilde was thrown to the left, hurled against Katarina, and letting out a continuous Woooooah!

At the end of the obstacle course, Katarina slammed on the brakes, and the car fishtailed to a stop. She took a breath, savoring the moment.

I think I can do this, she told Hilde. The escape might even be a bit of a lark. That is, assuming the guards have a hard time hitting a swerving target.

It had been a gray day, and as night set in, the weather turned drizzly. Peter Hermann and Elsa Krauss stood face-to-face on the train platform in Oranienburg, a city north of Berlin. After an excruciating weekend with Elsa’s parents, Peter was happy to be heading back to Berlin a day ahead of his fiancée. Elsa’s mother maintained a cold assessment of him, the son of an auto factory worker, so spending time with the Krauss family was never easy. The German Democratic Republic—communist East Germany—had not erased class distinctions.

A light rain whipped sideways, and even though the passengers stood under a roof while waiting for the train, the slanting sprays still struck them. Peter, a tall blond twenty-two-year-old student, loomed over his petite fiancée. He was not pleased.

How could you be so foolish? he said under his breath.

They couldn’t know it was me.

Peter shook his head and scowled. How could Elsa think he’d be pleased? He leaned over and whispered in her ear. His lips brushed against her long blonde hair, which spilled past her shoulders. Her perfume was strong. This is not some child’s game. This is real.

Taking a step away from him, Elsa dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She began to sob quietly, and Peter felt like cursing. It was always the tears with Elsa. He looked around the station platform, embarrassed by the scene she was creating. An older woman carrying a small suitcase cast him a sympathetic glance. Peter felt his face flush.

He knew he should try to comfort Elsa, put an arm around her shoulder. But he couldn’t prod himself to do anything but just stand there. How could she think that a few leaflets would have any impact? Posting leaflets near Humboldt University to protest the Wall was a foolish stunt in a country that kept a tight rein on all forms of communication. You even had to have a license just to own a typewriter in the German Democratic Republic—the GDR. Elsa actually told him she thought he would be happy with what she had done. Armed with a tub of paste, she had run through the night, posting the crude, handmade leaflets in telephone booths and at tram stops, where people couldn’t miss them. Using a crayon, of all things, she had scrawled out these words on leaflet after leaflet: When justice is turned into injustice, resistance becomes an obligation! Peter was afraid that the East German secret police, the Stasi, could trace the leaflets back to her.

Elsa took a step closer to him, and he knew she was expecting him to envelop her in his arms, say some comforting words to assure her it would be all right. But it might not be all right.

This wasn’t the way that Peter wanted to say good-bye. He hated leaving his fiancée like this. He liked order, and tears were messy.

I wish you didn’t have to go, she said.

I’ll see you at school in two days. Peter knew there was coldness in his tone. But lately, he couldn’t keep the ice out of his voice when he spoke to her.

As the train pulled into the station, Elsa buried herself in his long gray coat and laid her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. He had no choice.

Don’t be angry. She spoke in a girlish tone that irritated him even more.

Looking around the platform again, Peter noticed a middle-aged man glancing at them from behind his newspaper, which was becoming damp in the drizzle. Another man stood nearby with an unopened umbrella.

Don’t speak of it anymore, he whispered to Elsa, much harsher than he intended. They’re letting people on. Time for me to board. He pulled away from her.

A kiss? Elsa, only five feet three inches, looked up at Peter and waited. She was an attractive blue-eyed twenty-year-old, with a dimpled smile and long straight hair, but her figure had not yet matured, and she dressed so young that some people could mistake her as Peter’s younger sister. He pecked her on the forehead and then turned and climbed aboard the 7:33 train to Albrechtshof, where he was scheduled to meet a friend. He paused on the steps, turned to face her, and worked up a smile. He knew this would please her, and it did. She smiled and waved back.

Duty done, Peter found his way into the train car. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that following right behind him was the man with the newspaper.

Katarina pulled over to the curb, a few blocks from the border crossing at Heinrich-Heine-Strasse, where West Germans like Hilde could cross. Hilde reached for the door handle, then paused and looked her cousin in the eyes. I’m afraid for you.

Katarina was scared too, but she wouldn’t let on—for Hilde’s sake and for her own. False bravado had its benefits.

Don’t worry, Katarina said. I’ll see you tonight safe and sound. I can’t promise there won’t be a few bullet holes in the car though.

Hilde leaned over from the passenger seat and grabbed her cousin in a hug. A long hug, as though she didn’t want to let go. Katarina could feel Hilde’s body tremble from crying.

Hilde pulled back and wiped away the tears. Isn’t there any easier way than this? Maybe you should put this off. I can return the car and—

"I will see you tonight. I promise."

Katarina wished her cousin would stop tempting her to ditch this plan. It was going to be hard enough without the doubts. She was close to her cousin, always had been since they were young, being almost the same age. Hilde’s family lived in the West German city of Hamburg, but they would travel by rail to West Berlin several times a year; there they would meet Katarina’s family, because East Berliners had free access to West Berlin—at least they did until this year. Hilde and Katarina had the time of their lives during these special visits. But then came last August . . .

It made Katarina furious just thinking about it. She had gone to bed, the same time as she normally did, on that hot, sticky August night. When she woke on Sunday morning, the border between East and West Berlin had been sealed, and construction brigades were putting up barbed-wire fences, severing the city into two parts. In one day, Katarina was cut off from Hilde and other members of her family in the West. The barbed-wire fences sprouted up like some twisted Frankenstein vine, and a couple of days later, the Wall began to go up. An entire country was being bricked in.

It made Katarina sick with anger.

We will see each other this very evening, she told Hilde once again.

Promise?

Promise.

Hilde gave her a kiss on the cheek and then stepped out of the car. Katarina watched her cousin disappear into the dark and head for the border, where she would cross back by foot. With her visa for a day trip, allowed for West Germans, Hilde would have no problem crossing back. But for Katarina, an Easterner, that was a different story entirely.

After Hilde had disappeared around the corner, Katarina drove for the border crossing at Friedrichstrasse—Checkpoint C, or Checkpoint Charlie as the Americans called it. Temperatures were in the midfifties, and by this time, a cold mist had begun to fall. Katarina was worried that she would look suspicious driving a convertible with the top down on such a night, especially if the rain started coming down harder. The slick pavement would also make her plan much more dangerous, but she had only one night to pull this off. Rain or not, it had to be tonight. She was wearing a black scarf and a black raincoat to blend into the night, as well as have some protection from the elements.

Checkpoint Charlie was a crossing for foreigners and Allied soldiers leaving or entering the GDR. Some East Germans had found ways of obtaining fake passports and passing themselves off as foreigners departing East Berlin for the West. Katarina’s car was clearly Western, and that would be enough to reduce any initial suspicions. But a fake passport was not part of her plan. She had another, bolder idea.

The border guard waved her toward the two-lane inspection bay. All cars had to be checked thoroughly because people had tried smuggling human cargo in their trunks. So Katarina started to pull toward the inspection bay. The guard, clearly bored by the routine, looked away for just a moment, and that’s when she made her move. Flooring the accelerator, she swung the steering wheel hard to the left, and the Austin-Healey Sprite took off with a squeal that jolted the guard out of his stupor.

Halt!

Katarina took a quick glance at the startled guard in her rearview mirror and saw him point a gun in her direction. She ducked a split second before the guard fired a shot, but she didn’t hear the bullet find a target and figured that it must have gone flying by, into the night. Straightening back up, she headed directly for the first of a series of barriers—four-foot-high walls designed to slow down cars by forcing them to weave around the barriers.

Katarina had no intention of slowing down.

Peter stared out the train window into the darkness. The window was speckled with raindrops, and he examined his reflection in the darkened glass, noticing the facial features that he shared with his father. The thin lips, the thick hair, the ski-jump nose. Peter knew he should be more patient with Elsa, but he couldn’t help himself. She wasn’t the same girl he had begun dating three years ago. Elsa was two years younger than him—but in his mind, their age difference seemed to be growing. She almost seemed younger than the year before. She had followed him to Humboldt University, where he studied engineering; but her world seemed so narrow and trivial. Posting those leaflets was probably her way of trying to be more serious about life, but she went about it with such a childlike naiveté that it irritated him. It was oddly fitting that she had used a child’s crayon to create the fliers.

Still, he should try to control his anger, he vowed.

Peter wanted to go to sleep, but he knew the train would be reaching the Albrechtshof station shortly. So he listened to the middle-aged woman in the seat in front of him blather on to her husband about their daughter, who was dating a boy that did not meet with her approval. People didn’t talk much on East German trains, for fear of government ears; there were snoops everywhere. But that didn’t deter this woman.

Young people, she scoffed. They never listen to their elders. Not like the old days.

Peter was tempted to tap her on the shoulder and correct her. He was living proof that young people did exactly what their father—and their Fatherland—demanded.

Peter and Elsa were to be married the next summer. Everyone expected it. They had known each other since they were children, and even then, people talked about how adorable they were together. Peter was all about duty, so he would marry Elsa. Out of duty to his father, he had also entered the university’s engineering program, even though his first love was literature. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more, nothing less. He was a prisoner of his commitments, trapped on all fronts. Peter was only twenty-two, and already he felt weary, like an old man.

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe Elsa isn’t too young for me. Maybe I’m prematurely old. Maybe I’m turning gray from the inside out.

You should talk to Agathe, the woman in front of him was instructing her husband. Talk some sense into her.

Me? The husband’s tone was a mixture of shock and inevitable defeat.

Peter leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to create a mental dam to block the woman’s stream of complaints. But with his eyes closed and no visual stimulation to distract him, her words magnified in his mind.

Shouldn’t we be approaching the station? the woman suddenly said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Peter’s eyes popped open, and he sighed.

What now? said her husband.

The train. It’s picking up speed.

Peter looked around and realized she was right. The train did seem to be building speed, but how could this woman know they should be slowing down? She wasn’t the conductor.

Still, the woman sounded confident. We should be slowing down. I’m sure of it, Harry.

Do you think so, dear? There was a note of resignation in Harry’s voice, as if it was no use to doubt her.

Peter noticed that the man across the aisle—the one with the newspaper—had become fidgety. He looked up from his crossword puzzle, raised himself slightly from his seat, and peered around the train. Then he let his newspaper drop from his lap, leaned over, and looked out the window.

At that moment, the conductor entered the car and bellowed, Albrechtshof! Next stop: Albrechtshof!

But we’re not slowing down, the woman said to the conductor, even more loudly.

What’s that?

We’re picking up speed.

The conductor leaned over and stared out one of the windows. Shadows of telephone poles whipped by in the dark.

I think you’re right, the conductor said. Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, the tension level in the train went up. The car was filled with about twenty passengers, and many of them started peering out the windows.

The train hurtled into the night, gaining even more speed.

What’s happening here? the crossword-puzzle man demanded as he leaped to his feet.

I don’t know, comrade. The conductor yanked on the emergency cord, but nothing happened. He glanced out the window and then looked at his watch. Something was terribly wrong. Streaks of light flew by the window at increasing speeds.

Peter stood to his feet and noticed that a family in the corner of the car had their heads bowed. Were they praying? The baby in the mother’s arms began to cry, and she tried to shush him. By this time, it was obvious to everyone that the train was not going to stop in Albrechtshof—the last station before the border, the last station before West Berlin.

Suddenly, a young couple with a three-year-old boy threw themselves to the floor, and several other passengers followed in quick succession, as if their actions had been finely coordinated. This left Peter and others, including the conductor and crossword-puzzle man, staring at them in bewilderment. Half of the people in the car seemed to know something that they didn’t.

It suddenly dawned on Peter what was about to happen, and he too hurled himself to the floor of the train. Just in time. Seconds later, the windows shattered like ice.

Katarina heard another gunshot as she made a screeching turn around the first barrier. This time she heard the bullet pass, a tearing sound, as if the air was being ripped like paper.

Sharply turning right, she shot around the back of the first barrier, getting ready for the next turn. The maze of barriers allowed room for only one car, so her greatest fear—besides the bullets—was encountering another car coming toward her from the West. If that happened, she wouldn’t make it.

Taking a left around the next barrier, she nearly lost control of the car as the back end skidded on the slick pavement and missed hitting the barrier by inches. Another gunshot rang out, but the barriers provided cover. She took a hard right, and this time the back end of the Sprite clipped the barrier as it fishtailed. She brought the car under control and then swerved wildly around the final barrier, tires screeching, engine roaring.

Beyond the barriers was a large, heavy horizontal bar—a boom, like a gate at a train crossing, only stronger. Katarina prayed that the Austin-Healey Sprite was low enough to do this. Accelerating, she kept her eyes fixed on the bar, waiting for just the right moment. She had to time this precisely. If she ducked too late, she would be decapitated. The car rushed toward the bar, picking up speed. There was no stopping.

Now! Katarina ducked a split second before the car raced beneath the bar, clearing it by only a few inches. Popping her head right back up, she found that she was veering too far to the left, straight for a concrete wall. She jerked the wheel right, barely missing the wall, and then headed for the concrete conduit leading into West Berlin. Only one problem: The opening had room for only one car, and another car was heading straight for her, about to enter the passageway from the western side.

Leaning on her horn, Katarina raced through the opening, forcing the other car, which hadn’t yet entered the conduit, to swerve right and spin out of control. Katarina came shooting out of the gap, into the West, and roared into the American sector of Berlin. It was all a blur, but she thought that an American GI at Checkpoint Charlie gave her a thumbs-up.

Katarina had done it. She had found a small hole in the Wall and had threaded the needle. She was free.

Gunfire shattered the train’s windows, spraying glass fragments onto Peter’s back as he crouched on the floor, arms covering his head. The Volkspolizei (Vopos), the People’s Police, had fired from the platform when it became obvious that the train was not stopping in Albrechtshof. Since most people in the car had dropped to the floor, the bullets that penetrated the windows failed to find a human target. The baby, cradled in her mother’s arms, continued to wail.

Then a stunning jolt knocked those still standing onto the floor and sent Peter sprawling forward. It sounded as though the train was being ripped apart, and he realized it was the sound of the locomotive barreling through the barriers placed on the tracks. The train screeched as its steel wheels strained to keep the locomotive on the rails. Flat on the floor, Peter watched glass fragments dance and vibrate at eye level as the train steadily came under control and began to slow down.

He pushed himself up from the floor and kept his eyes on the crossword-puzzle man, who was also getting back to his feet, his mouth agape and his forehead bleeding. The crossword-puzzle man staggered over to one of the men lying on the floor—the father of the family that had been praying only moments before.

How did you know to drop to the floor? he demanded.

The father sat up and brushed the glass powder from his jacket. I could tell the train wasn’t stopping. I knew that meant trouble.

I don’t believe you.

"It’s true. I had no part in this. Anyone could’ve figured out what was going on."

Peter got back to his feet and walked to his seat, shoes crunching on fragments of glass. The mother and the father did not look surprised by what had happened, and neither did a handful of others in this car. The train continued to slow down, and by the time the locomotive came squealing to a stop, all the passengers started shuffling toward the door. The mother had finally calmed her baby.

Peter stood aside to let an older woman pass, and he thought she was trying to suppress a smile, as if she knew this was going to happen. When Peter piled out of the train with all of the others, he felt as if he had disembarked in another world. This was West Berlin, and there was something different in the way people looked and moved: less tension, less vigilance. He had been in West Berlin before the borders closed, but it felt strange being in the West on this day, knowing that crossing the border was now forbidden. Peter was not used to breaking rules.

He walked along the platform in a daze—like someone staggering away from a wreck. He passed by the conductor, who was shouting in the engineer’s face. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you stop?

The engineer smiled back, wiping his hands with a rag. There’s nothing wrong, friend, he said matter-of-factly. "This is the right place. The right place!"

Up ahead, friends and relatives were hugging passengers, further evidence that this had been planned. The West Berliners had known to show up at the station for this unscheduled stop.

A young woman, a college student from the look of her, seemed as confused as Peter. She clearly had no idea that they were going to cross into West Berlin. What are you going to do? she asked Peter.

Excuse me?

Are you going to return to the East?

Peter stopped and stared at her. What an amazing thought! He had assumed he would simply return to his fiancée, his family, his duties. He didn’t even think he had options.

My fiancé lives in West Berlin, so I’m staying here, the girl said. God sent me west by this miracle, and who am I to argue with God? The girl laughed and then hurried away before something happened to spoil her dream.

Peter turned and looked back down the tracks, staring east. All of his duties were on the other side of the border. Elsa. His father. The GDR. He was West. That was East. Wheeling back around, Peter stared to the West, caught between two worlds. Peter, the good East Berliner that he was, didn’t believe in God, so he had a hard time thinking that the Almighty had put him on this train. Yet . . . Maybe things did happen for a reason. But whose reason? He hadn’t the slightest idea.

Peter made his choice. He took a deep breath and started walking from the platform. He walked west.

2

Berlin

March 2003

Everywhere that Annie O’Shea looked, she saw desks covered with shredded pieces of paper and people calmly putting together puzzles.

This way, said Herr Adler, director of the small group of puzzlers working away in a boxy six-story building on Dorotheenstrasse, near Schadowstrasse, in the heart of the administrative center of Berlin. He motioned Annie upstairs and along the narrow institutional hallways. The second floor was more of the same—rooms filled with puzzles and secrets.

Annie O’Shea had loved jigsaw puzzles for as long as she could remember, and her interest had almost become an obsession during the lonely years living with her missionary parents in West Germany. Now the hobby was going to pay off in a small way. She was starting a new job in which she was going to be paid to do jigsaws. Granted, her salary would be modest at $30,000. But Annie, a forty-five-year-old widow with two grown children back in the States, didn’t live a lavish lifestyle. She would get by.

She checked out the office like a fussy new nanny inspecting the premises. How many work here? she asked in fluent German.

It varies, but we have sixteen right now, Herr Adler said. But if you count the workers in Zirndorf, we have closer to fifty-five.

Annie noticed that with the exception of Herr Adler, most of the puzzlers were women, piecing together scraps with double-stick tape. Herr Adler was like an amiable sultan, surrounded by his harem. He stood about five feet six inches tall, and everything about him seemed round, as if