Prologue
November 1962.
Schwandorf, East Germany.
Thirty-six year old Franz Schmidt lay in bed listening to the rain pattering on the window. It had been raining heavily for about sixteen hours onto bone-dry land. Most of the rain had run off into the river, which had risen by two metres. He was calm as he concentrated on the task ahead. If he did not perform tonight, he may die. November 1962.
Schwandorf, East Germany.
He played with his fingers, swallowed saliva and brushed his hands through his hair. His breathing was faster, he licked and bit his lips, flexed his fingers and made a fist, circled his feet, spread his toes and breathed deeply. Believe, Franz, believe. All the time, he concentrated on the window and listened to his heartbeat. Until he heard the church bell strike three o’clock. Time to go.
He carefully got off the bed and crept over to the wardrobe. There, on its top, he had hidden the football bladder and pump underneath some boxes. Franz could not take any personal articles so everything belonging to his old life would have to be left here. Everything that is, except the only two pictures he possessed of his parents. He kissed the pictures before wrapping them up in a small plastic bag, which he sealed with the glue from his puncture outfit. Then he opened the small zipped pouch on the hip of his swimming trunks and placed the bag in the pouch.
He carefully got off the bed and crept over to the wardrobe. There, on its top, he had hidden the football bladder and pump underneath some boxes. Franz could not take any personal articles so everything belonging to his old life would have to be left here. Everything that is, except the only two pictures he possessed of his parents. He kissed the pictures before wrapping them up in a small plastic bag, which he sealed with the glue from his puncture outfit. Then he opened the small zipped pouch on the hip of his swimming trunks and placed the bag in the pouch.
He carefully removed a tin of shoe polish from a drawer and blacked his face before he wrapped the tin in a handkerchief so it would not rattle against the air tap, put it in his pocket and secured the zip. On with the helmet and one last check. Over to the window, and slowly open it.
Franz was happy that the wind had dropped and so there was no sudden rush of air as he opened the window that might wake up his wife, Brunhilde, in the next room. One last look around his room and the icons of his life. He sighed and uttered a hushed “Goodbye and good luck,” to himself, and he was out.
He did not have too far to drop as his room was on the ground floor, enabling him to close the window behind him. Franz quickly made his way down the lane at the back of his house to the corner of the hayfield. Suddenly, one of those cursed dogs belonging to the Henning family must have heard him and barked, which in turn set off two other dogs elsewhere in the village. No stopping, he must push on.
The dogs were not a problem, everyone, including the security patrols, was used to them barking the whole night. He jumped over a stone wall and as he ran along the other side of it away from Henning’s, the dog relented. Satisfied with its work, it huffed one last time and returned to the comfort of its kennel.
Franz had to restrain himself from running too fast as he trotted lightly on his toes. His adrenaline, his fitness and his natural athleticism gave him boundless energy; so much that he wanted to run the three hundred metres to the stone bridge as fast as possible. He could not afford to do that, he might be seen, heard or expend too much energy. No, now he must walk. He must have control.
Stop, look, move silently to the next cover. In three minutes, he was at the bridge.
The rain had virtually stopped and a half moon occasionally poked its head through some gaps that had appeared in the cloud deck. Maybe good, maybe bad, he would soon find out.
Franz was happy that the wind had dropped and so there was no sudden rush of air as he opened the window that might wake up his wife, Brunhilde, in the next room. One last look around his room and the icons of his life. He sighed and uttered a hushed “Goodbye and good luck,” to himself, and he was out.
He did not have too far to drop as his room was on the ground floor, enabling him to close the window behind him. Franz quickly made his way down the lane at the back of his house to the corner of the hayfield. Suddenly, one of those cursed dogs belonging to the Henning family must have heard him and barked, which in turn set off two other dogs elsewhere in the village. No stopping, he must push on.
The dogs were not a problem, everyone, including the security patrols, was used to them barking the whole night. He jumped over a stone wall and as he ran along the other side of it away from Henning’s, the dog relented. Satisfied with its work, it huffed one last time and returned to the comfort of its kennel.
Franz had to restrain himself from running too fast as he trotted lightly on his toes. His adrenaline, his fitness and his natural athleticism gave him boundless energy; so much that he wanted to run the three hundred metres to the stone bridge as fast as possible. He could not afford to do that, he might be seen, heard or expend too much energy. No, now he must walk. He must have control.
Stop, look, move silently to the next cover. In three minutes, he was at the bridge.
The rain had virtually stopped and a half moon occasionally poked its head through some gaps that had appeared in the cloud deck. Maybe good, maybe bad, he would soon find out.
Franz had first heard the river when he was fifty metres from the bridge. Now as he crouched on its waterlogged bank, the water rushed noisily by, and in the dim light looked so forbidding as it bubbled and lapped under the bridge. The black maelstrom was barely ten centimetres from bursting over the top. He bit his lip as he questioned his judgement. Just for one moment. Come on, no time to look at it now, he thought, no time for the faint-hearted, move yourself!
Keeping a low profile, he moved the fifty metres or so along the riverbank to the trees. One last look behind him towards the lights of the village. No. No one was following, and he vanished into the trees.
The church clock struck three-fifteen as, keeping near to the river, he crept his way through the wood. A stick broke under his foot. He uttered a silent curse as he dropped down and listened. Nothing.
Onward. Franz could now see the border lights twinkling through the trees, he must be getting near the edge of the wood. It was difficult to see the river but he could hear the lapping of water, he must be close. Christ! His heart almost stopped as a crash of branches above his head made him look up into a tannenbaum where he could see the eerie black silhouette of an owl as it left its perch. It swooped down towards the river before levelling out and moving off in search of pastures new to a slow, steady, slap of its wings.
Then nature called, his bowels were moving. Franz only removed his swimming trunks just in time and was empty in a second. “Oh well, less weight to carry,” he whispered.
During his brief squat, he had seen the outline of the river as it left the wood ten metres further on, he decided to make his final preparations and inflate his artificial ‘lung’ where he was.
Franz removed his tracksuit top, connected the pump to the rubber pipe, the many blind rehearsals in his bedroom over the last two days now paid dividends. He counted the strokes as he pumped…
He knew he needed fifty strokes to inflate it, which was enough to give him two lung-fulls of air. Franz’s T-shirt tightened around him as the bladder inflated. God, what if it bursts? Every VoPo and NVA for two kilometres will be here in two minutes.
Keeping a low profile, he moved the fifty metres or so along the riverbank to the trees. One last look behind him towards the lights of the village. No. No one was following, and he vanished into the trees.
The church clock struck three-fifteen as, keeping near to the river, he crept his way through the wood. A stick broke under his foot. He uttered a silent curse as he dropped down and listened. Nothing.
Onward. Franz could now see the border lights twinkling through the trees, he must be getting near the edge of the wood. It was difficult to see the river but he could hear the lapping of water, he must be close. Christ! His heart almost stopped as a crash of branches above his head made him look up into a tannenbaum where he could see the eerie black silhouette of an owl as it left its perch. It swooped down towards the river before levelling out and moving off in search of pastures new to a slow, steady, slap of its wings.
Then nature called, his bowels were moving. Franz only removed his swimming trunks just in time and was empty in a second. “Oh well, less weight to carry,” he whispered.
During his brief squat, he had seen the outline of the river as it left the wood ten metres further on, he decided to make his final preparations and inflate his artificial ‘lung’ where he was.
Franz removed his tracksuit top, connected the pump to the rubber pipe, the many blind rehearsals in his bedroom over the last two days now paid dividends. He counted the strokes as he pumped…
He knew he needed fifty strokes to inflate it, which was enough to give him two lung-fulls of air. Franz’s T-shirt tightened around him as the bladder inflated. God, what if it bursts? Every VoPo and NVA for two kilometres will be here in two minutes.
He kept pumping, the T-shirt tightened. Forty-seven, careful, Franz. Forty-eight, please don’t burst, forty-nine, fifty, that’s it. Pinching the end of the tube, he removed the pump and inserted the tap before attaching a cir-clip over the joint. He listened for the tell-tale hiss that would signify his next problem, but no, the air was locked in the bladder. Would it stay there under the added pressure of three metres of water?
Franz had been unable to test this, but had tested the bladder and tap to a pressure of sixty strokes of his pump; he had not dared to push his luck any further. He hoped it would be enough.
OK, off with his tracksuit trousers and tighten his T-shirt around his waist with a safety pin on either side. “Yes. Got it. That will fix the bladder in place.” He allowed himself a small chuckle, he must look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. What would Charles Laughton have thought of him? Lastly, he blackened his legs and arms, picked up his flippers and he was ready. The church clock struck three-thirty.
Breathing deeply, he moved to the riverbank and then along it until he was behind the last tree. The field stretched before him, he could clearly see the border and its brightly illuminated but sinister fence five hundred metres distant. All clear.
Off with his trainers and on with his flippers; his mouth was completely dry, he could not even swallow. Four last big breaths. His head started to feel light, a good sign.
Sitting on the side of the muddy bank at the point where the river finished its last bend before the long straight run to the wire, the dark figure immersed his feet into the swirling water.
Entering the water on the outside of the curve, and therefore directly into the main current, the water almost ripped his flippers off as soon as they were knee deep. He jerked backwards. Stop! No. Go back. You’re going to die....
Shut up. You’ll die if you stay. No turning back. One last giant breath and he eased himself up on his hands and slipped into the turbulent depths. It was cold, icy cold. Struggling to get control and body position on the surface, he started to count, one, two, three, four. Maybe he didn’t have to dive; he couldn’t see anyone. Don’t be a fool, because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. Don’t change your plan. Dive!
Franz had been unable to test this, but had tested the bladder and tap to a pressure of sixty strokes of his pump; he had not dared to push his luck any further. He hoped it would be enough.
OK, off with his tracksuit trousers and tighten his T-shirt around his waist with a safety pin on either side. “Yes. Got it. That will fix the bladder in place.” He allowed himself a small chuckle, he must look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. What would Charles Laughton have thought of him? Lastly, he blackened his legs and arms, picked up his flippers and he was ready. The church clock struck three-thirty.
Breathing deeply, he moved to the riverbank and then along it until he was behind the last tree. The field stretched before him, he could clearly see the border and its brightly illuminated but sinister fence five hundred metres distant. All clear.
Off with his trainers and on with his flippers; his mouth was completely dry, he could not even swallow. Four last big breaths. His head started to feel light, a good sign.
Sitting on the side of the muddy bank at the point where the river finished its last bend before the long straight run to the wire, the dark figure immersed his feet into the swirling water.
Entering the water on the outside of the curve, and therefore directly into the main current, the water almost ripped his flippers off as soon as they were knee deep. He jerked backwards. Stop! No. Go back. You’re going to die....
Shut up. You’ll die if you stay. No turning back. One last giant breath and he eased himself up on his hands and slipped into the turbulent depths. It was cold, icy cold. Struggling to get control and body position on the surface, he started to count, one, two, three, four. Maybe he didn’t have to dive; he couldn’t see anyone. Don’t be a fool, because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. Don’t change your plan. Dive!