Back The Stasi Game
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Introduction
  4. Prologue
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17
  22. Chapter 18
  23. Chapter 19
  24. Chapter 20
  25. Chapter 21
  26. Chapter 22
  27. Chapter 23
  28. Chapter 24
  29. Chapter 25
  30. Chapter 26
  31. Chapter 27
  32. Chapter 28
  33. Chapter 29
  34. Chapter 30
  35. Chapter 31
  36. Chapter 32
  37. Chapter 33
  38. Chapter 34
  39. Chapter 35
  40. Chapter 36
  41. Chapter 37
  42. Chapter 38
  43. Chapter 39
  44. Chapter 40
  45. Chapter 41
  46. Chapter 42
  47. Chapter 43
  48. Chapter 44
  49. Chapter 45
  50. Chapter 46
  51. Chapter 47
  52. Chapter 48
  53. Chapter 49
  54. Chapter 50
  55. Chapter 51
  56. Epilogue
  57. Glossary
  58. Author’s Note
  59. Acknowledgements
  60. About the Author

He nods again. It’s one of those prompting nods, the ones television interviewers give to encourage their interviewees to keep talking. But I’ve given all I’m going to give him. I don’t want to be one of his research cases. So we lapse into silence for a moment.

‘What about work, Lotti?’ he says. I’m not sure he’s really interested. In fact, he’s probably wondering why he bothered having this meeting. What did he expect to find? A buxom, sex-obsessed thirteen-year-old as I was back then, trapped in some sort of time warp?

‘Oh gosh. My work is very boring. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.’

‘Ah!’ he says, knowingly, with a wink. ‘That sort of work. Say no more. My lips are sealed.’

Again, silence is the order of the day. I can see he’s feeling uncomfortable, and wondering what to say. Whether to try to cut everything short. That’s what they often do, my dates. Once they realise I’m not going to be an easy fuck just because I’m a Plain Jane. And not just a Plain Jane – a Plain Jane with a facial deformity. It’s thanks to you fucking British that I look like this, I want to say. But of course I don’t. That would be rude. He’s fiddling with the menu now, turning it over and over.

‘What about something to eat? Are you hungry?’

I realise this is the tipping point. It could go one way or the other. I can back out now, bring it all to an end, we say our goodbyes, and wonder why we’ve bothered to spoil what was probably a special memory for us both from more than forty years ago. Or I can say yes.

‘Yes,’ I hear myself saying. ‘That would be lovely. The Eisbein with Sauerkraut and Erbsenbrei is particularly good here.’

He looks at me like a little lost lamb. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘My German’s not bad, but you’ve lost me there.’

‘Well you know what Sauerkraut is?’

‘Of course.’

‘So the dish is pork knuckle with Sauerkraut and mushy peas.’

‘Mushy peas. Great. A Hull delicacy – usually served with greasy cod and chips, but pork knuckle and Sauerkraut sounds much more appetising. Shall we go for two of those?’

*