CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
One Saturday morning in December, the witch unlocks your cell door at 4.30 in the morning. You stare at her. She never opens up, and anyway it’s too early.
“I’m sorry the beds are not made, Madam Lieutenant,” simpers Margit. “I had no idea it was so late.”
The witch ignores her and hands you a cardboard box. Inside the box are the clothes you were wearing when the Stasi picked you up at Shakespeare Street. They are neatly pressed and smell of prison detergent.
“Put them on, Prisoner Reinsch,” says Blondie.
“But – ” you begin. It was summer when you were arrested. The clothes are not warm enough.
“Put them on!”
You pull off your prison clothes, step into your old jeans and T-shirt and stand by the bed, shivering. Margit stares as Blondie hands you a buff-coloured
