“I wouldn’t want to make helping you a habit, Erich. But sure. Why not?”

How much of what Erich Mielke told me was true was neither here nor there. He was certainly right that if I remained at the camp in Johannesgeorgenstadt I would probably die. What Mielke didn’t know when he offered me a way to escape was that I had been about ready to throw in the towel and join K-5 in the hope that much later on, after I had become a good communist, I might find an opportunity to escape.

Almost immediately after my meeting with Mielke, I was, as he’d promised, transferred back to the sorting of the rock. This raised some suspicions that I’d agreed to collaborate with the German communists and I was subjected to some close questioning by General Krause and his adjutant, an SS major named Dunst; however, they seemed to accept my assurances that I remained “loyal to Germany,” whatever that meant. And as the days passed, their earlier suspicions began to diminish. I had no idea when I would be summoned to the office and given my clean uniform and the all-important boots, and as yet more time passed, I began to wonder if Mielke had deceived me or even if he had been arrested himself. Then, one cold spring day, I was ordered to the showers, where I was allowed to wash and then given another uniform. It had been boil-washed and all of the badges and insignia removed, but after my own lousy clothes it felt like it had been tailored at Holter’s. The pleni who gave it to me was a Russian besprisorni—an orphaned boy who’d grown up in the Soviet labor camp system and was regarded by the Blues as a trusted prisoner who needed no supervision. He handed me my boots, which were made of rather fine soft leather, and then kept a lookout for me.

The money was rubles and, in an envelope addressed to Mielke’s friend, several hundred dollars. The papers included a pink pass, a ration card, a travel permit, and a German identity card—everything I’d need if I was stopped on the road to Nuremburg in the Ami zone. There was a small key for a set of manacles. And there was a loaded gun that was almost as small as the key: a six-shot Colt .25 with a two-inch barrel. Not much of a gun, but enough to make you think again about disagreeing with the person who might be holding it. But only just. It was a joy girl’s gun, hammer-less so as not to snag her stockings.

I tucked the papers and the money inside my boots, the gun under my waistband, and walked toward the gate, where Lieutenant Rascher and a Blue sergeant were waiting for me, as predicted. The only trouble was that Major Weltz was waiting for me as well. Killing two men was going to be hard enough. Three looked like a much taller order. But there was no going back now. They were standing beside a black ZIM saloon that looked more American than Russian. I was halfway there when I heard someone call my name. I glanced around to see Bingel nod at me.