the one act that defined the sole UK trip he made as a child. That suspicious Welsh cottage fire that killed Gustavus, his body stranded amid the accelerants and false passports left for his dismay by his morally-dubious wife. All they heard was the screams from the inferno. She feigned comforting Amory in the blaze glow as the white-walled and ivy embroidered cottage seared before them. Firefighters offered words of condolence as the paramedics arrived to treat the minor burns on Gretel and Amory. Despite an investigation, nothing came up about foul play. Not an iota.
Gretel Du Brokker had a sad childhood, due to her portly stature. She was bullied from an early age and had stern parents. She never had many boyfriends before Gustavus, but she learnt from the Stasi the importance of discretion. She tried to impart that to her son, who was curious about his mother and her predilection for reading matter. Whereas Gustavus was an active man who loved sports, Amory was more like his mother. He liked fiction books, whereas Gretel liked academia. That piqued Amory. She also seemed to take a great many photographs, yet never produced the amount she seemed to take? It was as if she was sending rolls of film somewhere. Why was she so secretive whilst doing/about her hobbies?
From this early age, Du Brokker and his psyche were formed. His mother had committed a terrible act, but only she could exonerate her son. Which she never did. She played along, as the dutiful Stasi mitarbeiter she was. Only later in life, when Stasi archives were liberated by the Western authorities, did her son uncover the truth! A sad tale.
Doctor Sian Contraire was rifling through her carefully documented notes on her iPad. She was a gamine, slender woman. In her thirties, she had hawkish, hooded eyes and a chiseled face. Her hair was a shock of blonde insolence, frazzled like a weeping willow. She did not dwell on circumstance, preferring to analyze her subject, who was accordingly….
“Victimised at an early age? Quite possibly bullied as a child? Medical History may reveal sources of malcontent. Still so much to learn about subject. Earlier family history unclear because of delusional episodes. Never explains his life even on prompting. Time to consult some medical journals. Possibly Merck. Perhaps too technical – suggested physical trauma. More likely Freud. Yes, Sigmund Freud. A man inspired by the poetry of Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe. Freud had also worked with German physician Ernst Wilhelm von Brücke. Freud had also worked with Charcot (who was director at the Salpêtrière a mental hospital in Paris where he researched treatment of mental patients using Hypnosis). This period of Freud’s career interested Contriare – so she consulted one of his works – “A Case of Successful Treatment by Hypnotism: With Some Remarks on the Origin of Hysterical Symptoms Through ‘Counterwill’” which was an 1892 paper. Contraire also researched information about the Cathartic technique for accessing memory and extracting information. Freud had developed this system with his friend Josef Breuer, a Viennese Physician. She discovered some useful information about control mechanisms……she could use medication with this technique….. She stared across at the prone figure on the Chaises Longue…… Still taking Zyprexa Olanzapine to fight depression. Increase dosage? “……Stay……with me, Amory…..!!”…….”
Zornig!
The year was 2010. Compared to East Germany, West German roads were rife with traffic. The autobahn network established by the Nazis was efficient and enabled fast driving (no speed limit). Du Brokker could maintain a healthy one hundred and twenty miles per hour as the BMW hared towards Munich. “Ich weiss Amory. Ich bin beamter. ” Du Brokker was broaching how to approach his mother. Be Teutonic and pragmatic. Be British and jovial, approachable.
“Keep our conversation in English, for goodness sake!!” Contraire was getting agitated by her subject’s refusal to simplify his problems!!!
Decisions! Decisions!
Ambitious driver bodyrolling his auto like a drunk skateboarder! The horn bellowed out irate pulses! Whilst the Stasi hitman negotiated Schwabing, to the north of Munich City Centre, his speed dropped to about forty miles per hour. Munich was rife with traffic. He rendezvoused with his dreaded mother, Gretel, in her drab flat not far from the Hauptbahnhof (main railway station). She lived near a hostel called Meininger, across from an Augustiner Hofbrau (micro-brewery). They drove out into the serene Bavarian countryside, wending a path towards the Alps. Along the Route was a service station accessed by a hill road not far from Neuschwanstein and the famous castle. This station had a viewing platform with a breathtaking vista across the prevailing valley.
Amory thought he looked distinctive with the puppy-fat face of typical fat people. His blood group was Type O and his hair colour was brown. Complexion was pasty, blotchy skin with rash sinews. He was working on a tan as the weather in Seattle had been hot so far that year.
His mother’s future employer and the head of the Stasi, Jung Silber, had sanctioned any activities to silence enemies of the state. His parents were obedient. They were both career civil servants. Gretel still had that crazy habit of snorting talcum powder. Her sinuses were so bad she could not tell when she was doing it!
Amory contemplated his life en-route…‘During the mid-1980s, a civilian network of informants known as the Inoffizielle Mitarbeiter (IMs, Unofficial Collaborators) began to grow within both parts of Germany, East and West.’
Too much recollection! Be specific.
Du Brokker’s personal hero. Gunter Guillaume who brought down the West German “Kanzler” (Chancellor) Willy Brandt. Active breed of Stasi agent. Personification of a hero! The tarmac dazed drowsy eyes, so he wiped his eyes. Amory snapped his fingers beside his left ear to keep alert!
Du Brokker smirked. He always knew the Velvet Mafia had a sense of humour! They judged on looks. Everything just so. The Velvet Mafia used a sinister gay terrorist organisation called the Ambigues. The Ambigues used vicious, callous tactics to demoralise their victims…………….Here was a portly fellow with a alcohol-soaked liver. He always wore cheap, beige slacks and monogrammed shirts. He had on his trademark sneakers. His face was drawn and haggard, as if he had AIDS or something. But that was just his demeanour. He always wore an enigmatic expression. As if trying to look normal. But he was not! ……………The Ambigues organisation was evil, preying on weak, fat women who could not defend themselves. Easy prey for cowards. Their tactics involved phone-off calls to their “victim”, stalking, bustling and threats of violence. Du Brokker smiled again. By the close of the weekend, the family would have fun. His appearance was excess. Casual clothes horse. He rubbed his hairy chest, imagined Petra doing it and tousled his thatch of hair (minus the prominent, hirsute “filings” around his mandible!). Even his nails were unkempt, being those of an assembler. Not that Du Brokker cared. Merely living.
Further images raided Du Brokker’s mind. Like drab Eastern European architecture. Or strange official museums like….. Stasi Museum Forschungs- und Gedenkstätte Normannenstr. Ruschestr. 103, Haus 1 10365 Berlin. The evening was closing in. It was 20-00 . Having parked up in the packed car park, Du Brokker scrambled out of his BMW and strolled across to the facade. People milled about. A child with a choc ice ran by, hands grimy with chocolate, hair dark, dungarees on and sneakers scraping grit. Her parents waltzed along, bedecked in a twee suit for him, a floral dress for her. Both parents had dark hair, slim, lithe physiques and broad smiles. She wore stilettoes, he had leather soled business shoes. He had his business jacket draped over his left shoulder. Amory milled around the Service Station, looking at magazine racks as if interested. Bodies voided space like meteorites. Pages were rustled. Bottles grabbed, Packets shaken. Shoes tapped. Crystal cases clanked onto cashiers desks. Amory was conscious about “subliminal selling”. She had finished her viewing around the shops and headed back to the BMW. Du Brokker had looked at the family photo. He had been deliberate about his clothes. They were drab. Utilitarian. Humble Scholl shoes. Grey t-shirt. Beige slacks. He had quickly changed out of the attire whilst in the rear of his hired BMW. Just the abdominal attire, you understand.
