Chapter 376 - 21: The Stasi’s Doomsday

Chapter 376: Chapter 21: The Stasi’s Doomsday

November 22nd, Wednesday, 7:30 AM.

The sixth floor of an old apartment building in the Prenzlauer Berg District of East Berlin.

Klaus Meyer sat at the kitchen table, a cold cup of coffee and a copy of the New Germany Newspaper before him. The newspaper’s headline read: "Modro Calls for National Unity to Build a New, Democratic East Germany."

The television was on. East Germany’s new Prime Minister, Hans Modro, was giving his inaugural address.

"...We promise to build a new East Germany that is democratic, open, and serves the people. We will thoroughly investigate the corruption of the old regime, hold those responsible accountable, and bring justice to the people..."

Modro, a sixty-one-year-old reformist in the SED, was a critic of the Anger regime. He had long advocated for reform from within the party and was consequently marginalized for years. Now that the old regime had collapsed, he was the new prime minister.

Klaus wasn’t reading the paper or watching television. He just sat there, staring out at the gloomy gray sky, his mind a chaotic mess.

"Dad, aren’t you going to work?"

His sixteen-year-old daughter, Mathilda, stood in the doorway, her schoolbag on, looking at him.

"I’m going." Klaus snapped out of it. "Of course I’m going."

"But it’s already seven-thirty," Mathilda said. "You usually leave at six-thirty."

Klaus glanced at the clock on the wall, stood up, and grabbed his coat. "I’m off."

"Dad," Mathilda called out, stopping him. "My classmate told me yesterday that his family is going to West Germany. He said we should start preparing now, exchanging our money for West German Marks, because... because the East German Mark is about to be worthless. Are we going to West Germany too?"

Klaus stopped and turned around. "What did your mother say?"

"Mom said it’s up to you."

Klaus fell silent. After a long moment, he said, "We’re not going. We’ve lived here our whole lives. Our jobs are here, our friends are here, your grandparents are here. We’re not leaving."

"But Dad, if the East German Mark really becomes worthless—"

"Then so be it," Klaus cut her off. "We still have our house, our jobs, and our own two hands. The Mark may be worthless, but we’re still here."

Mathilda looked at her father, her eyes welling up. "Dad, are you scared?"

"Scared of what?"

"Scared you can’t compete with people in West Germany." Mathilda’s voice trembled. "I heard from a classmate yesterday. Her dad is an engineer, but after he went to West Germany, he couldn’t find a job because companies in West Germany think diplomas from East Germany are worthless."

Klaus walked over and hugged his daughter. "I’m not afraid of competition, Mathi. What I’m afraid of is that if we leave, we’ll lose ourselves. This is our home. No matter what it becomes, it’s still our home."

Mathilda cried.

Klaus patted her on the back, then walked out of the apartment, went downstairs, and stepped onto the street.

The bus stop was crowded with people. They weren’t waiting for the bus, but gathered around a notice posted on the bus stop sign.

Klaus pushed his way through the crowd to get a better look at the notice:

"Due to the current special circumstances, bus service on this route has been temporarily reduced. We apologize for any inconvenience. —East Berlin Transit Company"

"Reduced service again?" an old woman complained. "They said it was reduced yesterday, and now it’s reduced again today. Are the buses even going to run at all?"

"The drivers have all run off to West Germany," another middle-aged man said. "I heard five drivers quit yesterday. They said the bus companies in West Germany are paying three times what they make here."

"Then what are we supposed to do?"

"Walk, I guess."

Klaus turned and walked away, heading in the direction of the factory.

************

9:00 AM, Workshop Number Three of the State-Owned Machinery Plant.

Klaus clocked in and walked into the workshop, only to find that even fewer people had shown up today than yesterday.

Of the more than thirty lathes, fewer than ten were running. The rest of the machines stood silently, covered in a layer of dust.

"Meyer! You’re here!"

The foreman, Old Herman, waved at him. Old Herman was in his sixties, with a full head of white hair. He had worked at this factory for forty years.

"Old Herman," Klaus said as he walked over. "How many people today?"

"Twelve," Old Herman sighed. "There were fifteen yesterday, and eighteen the day before. At this rate, there’ll be no one left by next week."

"Where’s the factory director?"

"The director?" Old Herman sneered. "He left yesterday, too. Went to West Germany. I hear he has relatives over there who can help him find a job."

Klaus fell silent.

"Meyer, tell me, should we even keep working?" Old Herman asked, pointing at the silent machines. "The country’s about to disappear anyway, and no one cares about production quotas anymore. What’s the point of us being here, working?"

"The point is..." Klaus thought for a moment. "The point is, we’re still alive. And as long as we’re alive, we have to work."

"But what about our wages?" a young worker asked, walking over. "I went to the bank yesterday to withdraw my pay. The teller told me we’re still being paid in East German Marks. I asked her how much longer the East German Mark would be usable. She said she didn’t know. Meyer, you tell me, this money we work our asses off for all month, could it be just worthless paper tomorrow?"

Klaus opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say.

"Forget it." The young worker waved his hand dismissively. "I just came to tell you all that I’m leaving, too. My cousin’s in West Berlin. He says they’re short on people at the construction sites over there, and you can make sixty West German Marks a day. That’s a hell of a lot more than we make here."

"You’re leaving too?" Old Herman asked.

"Yeah," the young worker said. "I’m sorry, Old Herman. But I really can’t take it anymore."

Old Herman didn’t say anything, just waved his hand.

The young worker turned and left the workshop.

Klaus and Old Herman stood there, looking at the empty workshop. Neither of them spoke.

After a long moment, Old Herman said, "You’re not leaving, Meyer?"

"Not leaving," Klaus said. "I’m not leaving."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Klaus looked at the silent machines. "Because if everyone leaves, then this country really is finished."

Old Herman looked at him, his eyes turning red. "Meyer, you’re a good man."

Klaus didn’t say a word. He walked to his own lathe and flipped the switch.

The machine roared to life, its sound echoing through the empty workshop.

He picked up a metal plate and began to cut.

There were no production quotas, no supervisors, and no bonuses. He was just working, because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

*****************

January 8th. Erfurt. The Stasi branch headquarters.

Hundreds of people had gathered in front of the building, holding signs and shouting slogans:

"Disband the Stasi!"

"Open the archives!"

"Give us back the truth!"

This huge, gray building was once the most mysterious and terrifying place in East Germany. The fates of countless people were decided here, and countless secrets were buried here.

But now, it just looked like an old office building. Its windows were grimy, its paint was peeling, and some of its windows were even smashed, with shards of glass still hanging from the frames.

A middle-aged man in plainclothes slipped out a side door of the building. He was carrying a cardboard box and walking quickly toward the parking lot.

The crowd of protesters spotted him and immediately surged forward.

"Stop!"

"You’re one of the Stasi!"

"What are you carrying?"

The middle-aged man’s face went deathly pale. He turned and ran. The cardboard box fell to the ground, its contents scattering everywhere.

A few young people rushed over, picked up the documents, and began to read them.

"Files! These are files!"

"My dad’s name is on this one!"

"There are pictures, too!"

The crowd grew agitated, and more people surged toward the building.

The police tried to block them, but there were too many people. They couldn’t be stopped.

Someone saw several Stasi officials through a window, frantically shredding documents.

"They’re destroying the evidence!"

"Break in!"

"Don’t let them destroy the files!"

The crowd broke through the police line and surged toward the building.

*************

Erfurt Stasi Branch Headquarters, third basement level, the archives room.

Mark Herman sat amidst a pile of shredded paper, mechanically tearing up documents.

His fingers were raw and bloodstained, but he kept tearing. Page after page, file after file, without end.

"Herman! That’s enough!"

His section chief burst into the archives room, his face ashen. "The upper floors have been taken! The protesters have broken in! We have to go!"

"The files aren’t all destroyed yet," Herman said without looking up. "There are still thirty thousand left."

"There’s no time!" the section chief roared. "Do you want to get arrested? Do you want to be put on trial?"

Herman stopped what he was doing, looked up, and faced his section chief. "Chief, this is the only thing I’ve done my entire life. Surveillance, recording, organizing files. Now you’re telling me to leave... where would I even go?"

"Anywhere! Just not here!"

"If I leave, who will destroy these files?" Herman gestured at the mountains of documents piled around them. "How many people’s secrets are in here? How many people’s entire lives? If this stuff gets out, how many families will be torn apart?"

"That’s not our responsibility!" the section chief said. "We were just following orders!"

"Right, we were just following orders," Herman said with a bitter smile. "So we could spy on our neighbors, record the private lives of our friends, and ruin innocent people’s lives with a clear conscience. Because we were just following orders."

The section chief stared at Herman for a long moment before saying, "Herman, you’re insane."

"Maybe I am," Herman said, lowering his head and resuming his tearing. "But at least I’m going to finish this job."

The section chief turned and left.

Herman sat in the pile of shredded paper and continued to tear up the documents. Footsteps echoed from upstairs, growing closer, and louder.

He knew they would be here soon.

But he kept tearing, page after page, until the door was kicked open and several young people rushed in.

"Don’t move!"

"Hands up!"

Herman slowly got to his feet, raised his hands, and looked at the young, angry faces before him.

"You’re too late," he said calmly. "I’ve already destroyed a hundred thousand files."

One of the young men rushed forward and punched him in the face.

Herman fell to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but he was smiling.

"You’re too late," he repeated.