by Ewan Lawrie
h of the Bear
Ewan Alexander Lawrie
Copyright Ewan Alexander Lawrie 2010
Four Word Foreword
This could be true.
In the Mouth of the Bear
Charlottenburg, Wilmersdorf
Kanstrasse, Ku'dorf
The usual places could be chanted like a children's learning rhyme.
Pink and garish neon, mulberry-stained dawns and drink. So much drink. And, naturally, all artificial light was obscured by dense and pungent tobacco smoke. Unwise liaisons, broken hearts - on both sides of the cultural divide. We wore our rebellion as a uniform, before donning the real thing to go to work.
The best of times? Maybe? And the worst? Maybe that too...
The City of the Bear: two cities in one, Siamese twins conjoined at the heart by concrete and watchtowers. Yin - the grey capital of a corrupt and dying regime, Yang - the glitzy whore's heart of mostly upbeat -isms; capitalism, hedonism and dubious sexual tourism. One year to go to Orwell's dystopian vision; who knew it would turn out like this? In six short years all the certainties of the Cold War would start to crumble: they'd applied the Domino Theory to the wrong game.
How exciting! You say. City of spies, escapes and drama. Did you know? Could you tell the twilight was coming? And the answer is no, how could I? It was all numbers and databases, trends, peaks and troughs: statistics, not dead-letter drops, honey traps and exchanges of spies on neutral ground. And we were young, early 20s or younger - interested in birds, bands and booze; pockets full of money. Deliberately overpaid to help us flaunt our conspicuous consumption in front of the Soviets and the fuming Ostberliners: Propagandist Party Animals.
There was a train. If you didn't drive -and wouldn't fly- it was how you got from West Berlin to West Germany. The Berlin Military Train: several coaches and a large dining car. We used to board at 0800 hours: by 9 we had started on the canned beer. The locomotive would be changed after the checkpoint on the edge of West Berlin: an East German engine pulled you all the way to Magdeburg. Lunch and wine from a very good cellar was served as the Duty Train Officer handed all the Berlin Travel Documents to a Soviet Captain in full dress uniform on the platform. Someone likely to have queued for potatoes at a butcher's watched us swilling the red and chomping our steak, no wonder he pretended to dot every incomprehensible i and cross every non-cyrillic t. The Berlin Military Train travelled daily.
So no, I didn't feel the hand of history: we drank, danced and debauched for 10 years and were as self-important as any twenty-somethings have any right to be. And yet? we were spied upon, by untrained fellow servicemen: our own mini-STASI on the wrong side of the wall.
But what a time it was. What a city. Berliners knew it and wouldn't hesitate to tell you so. It was a magnet for draft dodgers, alternative lifestyles and sexual outcasts. No wonder Bowie had moved there for a few years. How fitting it was that the City of the Bear nestled like a stale blini in the mouth of the Russian Bear, we were closer to Warsaw than Hamburg.
So this is a flavour of our Berlin; not much Realpolitik, no espionage secrets and no I-told-you-so analysis: just young people, away from home, with too much money and not quite enough sense.
Nightclubbing
I looked Madame Stradivarius in the eye and grinned. A slight lift at the corner of her mouth and then the naked violinist carried on with her act.
'Beers?' Dave enquired, already seated, eyes glued to the curtain-covered door to the left of the stage.
'What else?' said Jock, as I gave a nod and sat down. Opposite Dave, my back to the stage.
The waitress turned up with the beers before we ordered though; the short hair and British accents making her mind up: saving time. Her time was still money, though she was past working as a hostess here in Mon Cheri's. A Kabarett - Cabaret in English, if you like: but you'd be hard pushed to picture Liza with a Zee here. It was dark except for the Klieg Lights lighting the tiny stage. Four people might fit on it, if they were very close together - which they sometimes were.
Mon Cheri was the name of a hideous brand of liqueur chocolate that the Germans were crazy about. One of the girls did a show every night that gave the club its name: Madame Stradivarius wasn't the only novelty act in here. We called it Mons: linguists like word play.
I took a sip of the beer. The grimace on Dave and Jock's faces had told me it was Charlottenburger Pils? the only beer available in these places seemingly. At 10 Deutschmarks a throw it cost roughly 20 times a NAAFI beer.
As Jock liked to say, you expect to pay something for the ambulance.
The Paganini tape over the PA was approaching the end. Birgitte would soon be off stage. Dave craned his neck for a better view of the curtain. Jock scanned the room, checking out the clientele.
' Two "Gee I's" at 2 o'clock' he said.
' A schnapps says they leave with assistance.' I laughed
'I'll no take that bet, thanks.' I hadn't expected him to. Dave was still mooning at that curtain.
We didn't call them 'Gee I's' because they were military - although they probably were. Birgitte was taking her bow on-stage, and her bow off it.
Right on cue a very loud voice rang out:
'Gee I never seen that in Kansas!'
Only the state varied, but they all said it - all of them. The trick was having a suitable comment on the state. Some nights that was easier than others:
'Too right, Toto' we chorussed, even Dave.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, the smell of 'Poison': a football stadium perfume: overpowering in Mons and unmistakable.
'Ah, Schmetterling. Is tonight the night?' It was a joke. She always called me Butterfly: I wasn't sure why.
'Not tonight 'Gitte, I've got the clap.'
'Schmetti, you can't cut your finger if you don't use the knife! Come on, tonight, with me. A special price.'
I expect I was neither first nor last to hear this on that particular night. In any case she was still joking. I never touched the women in any of the clubs, as Birgitte well knew.
'Ach, Schmetti, I'll see you in five minutes? you can buy me champagne!'
'Two things 'Gitte: it's not champagne and the other business would be cheaper!' I smiled at that.
'Exactly, Schmetterling, exactly'. Her returning smile seemed genuine, and she and the fiddle headed off through Dave's curtain.
The champagne was a bigger scam than the beer. The bottle would arrive already opened in a bucket of ice, 15 minutes after ordering. It takes time to pour in the Babycham and water it down. The price - of course - was more ridiculous than the taste. The way to play the game was to agree to buy a piccolo; a pencil thin glass of the same concoction at 15 marks a go. This guaranteed customers thirty minutes of the ladies' time, if you were well behaved.
I lifted my pilsner.
' Here's to the running dogs of capitalism!'
' Saving the world for democracy!' Jock returned.
' CND forever!' said Dave, a crooked smile on his face.
The beers clinked above the bottle-scarred table:
' Fuck 'em!' we saved sincerity 'til last, as usual.
Dave turned towards Jock: taking the curtain -and the stage out of his eye-line. Ute must have gone on stage. Sure enough; 'Lola' started on the PA. There was nothing special about Ute's act, until the end that is. She did a mostly straightforward strip act. Dave started:
'I've got my interview next week, you know?'
'So? The usual lies is it?' Jock sniggered at my question.
'I'm no' your referee, am I?'
'No, he is, as usual? just' Dave replied.
'What? You want me to tell the truth this time?' I broke in.
It was gratifying to watch the beer jet o
ut of Jock's nostrils.
'Actually, you'd better. I'm going to, you see.'
'Dinna be daft!' Jock was shocked, not laughing now.
'You know what that means, don't you?' He knew and I knew, everyone did.
'A one-way ticket out. Out of Berlin, out of the RAF. I don't care.'
Jock and I looked at each other, hoping the drink was talking, thinking for the first time about returning to base, even at this early hour. Dave got up, went to the toilet. Always did, during Ute's act.
'Got it bad.' Jock pronounced.
'As could be' I allowed. I raised my eyebrows at Jock. He shrugged.
'No' our business, really!'
I sighed. That wasn't good enough.
Dave was Ute's Mr Goodbar. She didn't have to go looking for him. On days off Dave would be in his seat, waiting for the club to close. He'd look away when she was on-stage; when shadowy figures followed her through the curtain. Later Ute and Dave would go off into the dawn. He'd arrive back at base two days later, to get changed for work.
We never thought it would get serious. Ute's act proved that they couldn't get married, not even in Berlin. I had assumed the novelty would wear off. Things looked bad for Jock and me: if Dave confessed all, we couldn't admit we knew - and if we couldn't prove we didn't - the end would be the same. We'd be out the door too, seconds behind Dave.
The piccolo and Birgitte arrived at the same time. She made no acknowledgement of the aging waitress. Maybe she saw her own future in the poster paint make up and the lined, defeated face.
'So, Schmetti, where is Philip?' Never Phil.
'The laser beam smile snagged a Dutch air hostess in
