Three years before her retirement, one of Gunther’s operations was handed over to the comrades in the KGB. Gunther stuck it out somehow, following the ousting of his commander and close friend, and continued to handle his agents, professionally and in earnest, albeit with a sullen and grim demeanor. The operation was one of the most classified under Gunther’s control, and she recalled that the seeds had been planted back in the days when she was working in the bureau of the division chief. The agent’s name didn’t appear in the dossier at all and there was only a code name, the nickname they had given him. Marlene couldn’t forget him, particularly in light of what happened later on. They called him Cobra. Gunther was his handler, under the assumed name of Martin for that particular operation. He had explained it to her: “In my dealings with Cobra, I play the part of an American. It’s essential. But I chose a name for myself that’s also a German name. So that if something doesn’t seem right to him all of a sudden, not perfectly American, I’ll have a cover story to offer.” Gunther would often share his little secrets with her. And from time to time, he sought her advice, too, wanted to know what she was thinking. After all, she was just as familiar with the operations as they were, the handlers, and even a little more so sometimes, precisely due to her remoteness from the field. Because, he explained to her, she saw them through the paperwork, via the reports, with a degree of objectivity they lacked.
And then came the day when Gunther turned up at the Archives in the company of two KGB officers. She had never seen KGB officers at her Archives, despite knowing, just like anyone else with eyes in his or her head, that the KGB was involved in one way or another in most of the operations. Evidence of this could also be found in the dossiers on the various operations, which included all the intelligence communications relayed to KGB headquarters in Moscow. But seeing those officers, those foreigners, in her basement? Gunther was stern-faced, there was no smile for her this time, and that spirit of adventure, that sense of faraway places that usually enveloped and accompanied him, was gone. “Comrade Schmidt,” he said to her, “in keeping with orders from the head of the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance, we’re required to hand over Operation Cobra and all the dossiers pertaining to the operation to our comrades in the KGB. Nothing must remain in the Archives, not even a single document related to the operation. From this day forward, the operation is no longer ours, doesn’t concern us, doesn’t interest us. I’ve already forgotten its existence, and I’m relying on you, Marlene”—addressing her by her first name this time—“and it’s an order, to forget entirely about it, is that clear?” Gunther waited, and she nodded, unable to utter a single word. He was so official, stiff and lifeless. From an inside pocket in his coat, he pulled out a printed document bearing the signature of General Heinrich Krueger’s bureau chief. The document was a written version of the instructions Gunther had just given her verbally. And she went, ran almost, to the shelves on which the Cobra dossiers stood, and gathered them up, six thick ones, and carried them to the counter. She laid them down, and one of the two foreign officers opened a large bag, resembling a military duffel bag, and placed the dossiers inside without a word. She remembered wondering at the time if bags like that were fashionable in the Soviet Union, and wondering even more about how such foolish and worthless thoughts could be going through her mind at such a time. After closing the bag, the officer attached it to his person with a steel chain that closed in a handcuff of sorts around his wrist, thanked her in German with a hint of a Russian accent, appeared to her to click his heels, turned, and began walking, with the second officer in his wake. Gunther waited for a moment before leaning toward her and whispering: “You see, my dear, that’s how it ends. Little by little. They’ve lost faith in us.” He rested a large and warm hand on hers for a moment—and left.
Some two months later, in early October 1987, Marlene heard that Gunther had been hit by a truck and killed on the highway north of Berlin. One of the bureau clerks whispered, at lunch, that Gunther was out walking—yes, walking—by the side of the dark road. There was no way the poor truck driver could have seen him. The driver was in custody, but he was still in shock and wasn’t able to offer any information about the incident. The Human Resources Department issued an announcement about Gunther’s death, noting his senior rank and providing details of the funeral, which was to be held four days from then. The funeral took place on a gloomy and rainy Monday at the military cemetery in East Berlin. Marlene took a day’s leave and went alone, her eyes overflowing with tears, on the train from Dresden to Berlin, and stood at the edge of the small group of people who had come to bid farewell to Gunther for the last time. There were no eulogies, and no prayers were said. From afar, and through her tears, Marlene caught sight of Markus’s face—she hadn’t seen him for two years, and he appeared cold and angry. A dry whimper grazed her throat, a knife dragged across her heart, and her hands reached up to firmly tighten the scarf around her neck.
10
DRESDEN, OCTOBER 2012
Marlene didn’t think she’d have the strength to open the church door. A feeble autumn sun painted the narrow street in a yellowish light and long shadows. Reddish-brown leaves were piled up on the edges of the sidewalk. Winter would soon be upon them, without warning; the temperatures would plummet and the trees would stand bare, their branches black and their appearance two-dimensional against the backdrop of an opaque sky. Inside the houses, despite the terrible cold outside, people would get on with their lives, enjoying the warmth of their heating systems, the taste of sweet wine, being close to one another. Christmas by then wouldn’t be long in coming, relatives would gather from afar, small families would get together, a glowing aura of light around their heads, bent forward close together in humility and love. She, Marlene, wasn’t going to be around any longer to enjoy it all. Her days were over. She could feel it in her aching bones, in the ever-increasing withering of her soul. Her physician, Dr. Baumberger, had looked at her during her last visit to the clinic with sad brown eyes and said, “Marlene, there’s nothing more we can do other than alleviate your pain. If there’s anything you need from me…” he trailed off, not completing his sentence. “Is there a family member you’d like to notify, perhaps?” he asked, and she quietly responded, “No, no,” and could think only of one person she’d like to have with her, by her side, in the same room, having a drink, sitting there quietly or telling her his stories, a young smile that belied the age on his face; after all, he, too, would be old by now, if only he were still alive. But he was dead, had been murdered, to be exact. A large truck had run him down on a rainy night, her Gunther, her Werner, she allowed herself to whisper silently, aware of the fact that her weakness and solitude made it possible for her to say those words without anyone hearing.