Paul nods at me and carries on drinking his beer.
Springtime in Bavaria
Tuesday, 29 April 1986
Gunari has been gone for too long, way too long. He claimed “I’ll only be ten minutes” but this has now stretched to over an hour. The sun is out but it is chilly sat outside at the cafe. I would prefer to venture back inside but I agreed not to move from where the spot I’m sat at.
What if he doesn’t come back? After nine months of what some people may term captivity, this is the nearest thing to freedom. Munich is easily the most imposing city I’ve ever seen. We once visited Belgrade on a school trip when I was twelve years old but the buildings in the city centre cannot compare to the grandness of this German city.
Gunari left over an hour ago to meet with Bavarian Boris.
Bavarian Boris is a man who is neither a Bavarian - he is a Slovak - nor actually called Boris as his actual name is Adam. Janko and Gunari both told me completely differing stories regarding the origin of his name. Which confirmed to me that it is almost one hundred per cent certain that neither of them knows how he obtained the nickname.
Boris is not Roma but a Slovak nationalist and a fervent anti-Nazi. And anti-Communist too it must be said. He was sentenced to prison for subversion during the Prague Spring but managed to escape and ended up in West Germany working to overthrow the Communists from abroad.
Gunari says he is easily the best in Europe at digging information up. It made me wonder if he actually has a ranked list of information-digger-uppers in a folder.
This digging quite often would involve searching through peoples’ trash giving him another sobriquet of Boris the Bin Raider. Gunari wouldn’t tell me how many Marks he paid for his services but I saw him take a lot of money out of the safe before we departed Savoy.
There is still no sign of Gunari so I order another coffee. Ten Marks it costs, what a scandal! If Gunari has disappeared I realise that I have spent the last of my money on that coffee. What would I do if I am on my own?
Back at the cottage, Janko would give me whatever I needed but I never received any pocket money or allowance. In fact, the more I think about it, this could be a form of slavery. I may have to contact the United Nations about this situation. It’s over seventy minutes now and I am beginning to worry. I contemplate venturing to the train station to find Gunari but I decide against it.
There is a certain surreality about my situation. I am not employed nor in education but within reason, anything is available to me. If I need new clothing I ask Janko and he will give me money to head to the shops. All my food is taken care of. In many ways, it could be seen as the life of a soldier. Which makes sense considering the enormity of the challenge we face.
For the last three months, Janko has been devouring as many old Nazi records as he can. He travelled to Berlin and London trying to find out who old man Beckermann is. All he found was that his first name is Paul. There are apparently no records of a wartime soldier by that name. Or Gestapo. Or any part of the military that he could search for.
The man is a ghost. Obviously, during the war, he was known by a different name. Nothing Janko has looked for has provided a clue or an answer. I suggested that maybe Beckermann is Tremmick which Janko considered as plausible until he saw a photo of him sent by Boris. Beckermann is a corpulent, five-chinned man who is also around two metres tall. Tremmick is about fifty centimetres smaller and of a rather petite, almost womanly figure for a man, according to Janko.
My training has carried on unabated. I can now run a daily fifteen kilometres with barely a problem. Gunari has stepped up the combat lessons and I can feel the power in my arms now which is a big help when it comes to using the axe to chop the wood for the fire. I have put on twelve kilograms in less than a year but it is all muscle. There is barely a shred of fat on me, although I was a scrawny kid anyway so visibly I can’t see the difference. Gunari, on the other hand, is quietly proud of my toned body and the impact of his training regime.
We arrived last night in Munich and checked in to a cheap hotel opposite the central train station. Luckily we have a room each so I spent my evening relaxing in the bath. I never thought it was possible to spend an evening in the bath but with a technique of letting out the tepid water and topping up the hot tap with my toes, I managed to bathe for a good two and a half hours. I went to bed a contented, shrivelled lobster-woman.
Breakfast was eaten at the hotel and the taste of the eggs nearly prompted a hail of vomit whilst the bacon teetered on the border between inedible pig scrapings and actual cardboard. When I found out it cost fifteen Marks I almost threw one of the baseball-like bread-rolls at the hotel manager.
Gunari and I ate a more edible brunch at a cafe by the fountains on Karlsplatz and at midday, he departed to meet Boris at the main train station. That was a good hour and twenty minutes ago now. I’m pondering using the phone inside to call Janko and ask his advice when I spot Gunari lumbering towards me.
He is walking over the main road with his brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. Other people eye him cautiously as he walks past, he possesses a definite sense of impending mayhem. I wave to him and he nods at me and beckons me towards the U-Bahn station over the road. I grab my rucksack and hop the fence to join him.
“What took you so long?” I ask as we start heading down the steps at the U-Bahn station.
“He wasn’t there when I arrived. I waited to see if he would show up but he didn’t. I looked out for people who might be aware of our meeting but I couldn’t see anyone,”
“He wasn’t there? Why not?”
“I don’t know, maybe he was being cautious. Luckily we prepare for these situations. I took a walk for half an hour and then headed back to the station to the lockers,”
“I was worried about you. I thought you’d been kidnapped by Boris, the Bavarian Bin Raider,”
“Not this time. We have a locker key that we use if we need to pass on important knowledge. I checked the locker and bingo!”
Gunari passes me a manilla file, he points at my rucksack and I place the file in there.
“Have you looked at it yet?” I say.
“Not yet,”
“Where are we going?” we are now in front of a map which Gunari is inspecting with all the solemnity of Gorbachev deciding whether to press the nuclear codes and wipe out Washington.
“I want to take a look at him,”
“Isn’t that risky?”
“Boris was being careful, there will be no problems for us. Now which way to the butcher’s shop?” I pull out my notebook and find the address. Janko has also jotted down the nearest U-Bahn station.
“It’s the U3 or U6 line, to...let me see... to Giselastraße station. Do you know it?”
“It’s on Leopoldstraße, it’s a very busy street. A lot of street life for us to blend in to,”
“Come on then Gunari, there’s a train in two minutes,”
We speedily pass through the bare, utilitarian corridors and leap onto the train with seconds to spare. The map above the door informs me we are three stops along. I hope Gunari knows what he is doing by visiting the Beckermann’s butcher shop.
We depart the train and a few gangs of university students bound off the train chatting boisterously to each other. Exiting the station I see a traffic-filled boulevard lined with tall trees. It is early afternoon but the streets are lively, people milling about and Paulaner beer trucks doling kegs out to the busy nearby bars. Summer has reached Bavaria and it is a very pleasing place to spend a day.
“Which way?” I ask.
“It’s over the other side of the road,” Gunari nods towards the crossroads on a diagonal.
“Oh, I can see it,” I say, the butcher's sign is falling apart so it now states -ECKERM-NN METZG--R-I. Those missing letters would drive me insane if I worked there.
“There is a bar opposite, let’s buy a drink and see what is in the file,”
We take a seat, Gunari pops on a pai
r of sunglasses and I start laughing.
“Is that your disguise?” I say as a waiter approaches us.
“The sun is shining in my eyes,” Gunari pleads and then he notices the waiter, “A beer for me please,”
“Could I have orange juice?” I ask in halting German. The waiter nods and heads inside to the bar. I gaze over to the butcher’s shop and notice a steady stream of customers entering and leaving the shop. Clearly, the discovered Nazi treasure hasn’t impacted the business too much.
The waiter returns with our drinks and places them carefully on the table. Fresh orange juice in a tall glass for me and a foaming glass of Löwenbräu beer for a gleeful Gunari. As the waiter walks away to serve the customers next to us, I pull the file from my rucksack and begin reading the documents.
“There’s not a great deal here,” I say, despondency creeping over me. It contains a few photographs and then one sheet of paper with typed notes.
“Quality above quantity Ana, that is the key,” Gunari takes a sip of his beer leaving a foamy moustache above his top lip, “It may take only one piece of information for us to move forward,”
“Paul Beckermann, age unknown, birthplace unknown. That’s a good start,” I re-read the biography that Boris has written.
“Come on Ana, tell me it all,”
“The shop opened in summer 1947, by Paul Beckermann and his brother Horst. It appears that Horst is another ghost. No details could be found about him either,”
“So who is he I wonder,” Gunari says, in a rhetorical manner, “I would guess that it is not his brother,”
“It’s two years after the war, it would be likely that he also resides in Germany perhaps?”
“Quite possibly. Go on Ana,”
“The shop doesn’t appear to be a front. It is a popular shop in this neighbourhood and from what they found, none of the Beckermann family has been in trouble with the police. In fact, they are well-respected members of the community and the local business forum. Paul Beckermann lives in a small flat on a nearby street and rarely leaves the house. During the surveillance, he would go for a drink at a local tavern called Michaela Bar on two evenings a week,”
“Interesting, go on,”
“It says here that he usually sits at the bar on his own and doesn’t talk to anyone except the bartender, the eponymous Michaela, a busty blonde of about forty years,” I look up at Gunari, “Boris enjoyed this research I think,”
“It does sound quite tantalising, but I don’t think it helps us. Is there anything else in there?”
“On the first of the month, he drops a letter in the post box at the post office on Kurfürstenplatz at around four in the afternoon,”
“Every month?”
“According to Boris, four months in a row,”
Gunari whistles and takes off his sunglasses. He rubs his eyes and takes the paper from me.
“Excellent translation Ana,” he says and I can feel myself blushing with pride, “I think this could be the clue we are looking for,”
“How would we intercept the letter?” I say.
“I’m not sure, he is taking the letters to the slot in the wall of the post office so it won’t be exposed like a postbox in the street would be,”
“It’s two days away from the first of May, his next drop will be soon,” I say.
“We should take a walk to the Post Office and find out a bit more,” Gunari leaves a few marks on the table and stands up, I take it as a sign we are leaving so I neck my juice giving me a minor brain-freeze and put the file back in my rucksack.
It is a short walk through clean streets and plain apartment blocks towards the post office. Kurfürstenplatz is a dull square with a few trams chugging through the streets, it is filled with road traffic too.
We head to a corner bar and once again sit outside where Gunari orders another beer and I choose an apple juice this time. I check the time and it is now half past three.
“What are we looking for?” I ask.
“Probably a vehicle arriving to pick up the letters from the box,”
“When will that turn up?”
“I have no idea, the shop closes at five so I’m guessing before that. Unless they come in after hours then we could be waiting here for the rest of the day,”
“You might want to hold back on the beers, otherwise you might see two vans instead of one,” I say. The sun has dropped low in the sky behind the buildings opposite which makes keeping an eye out quite difficult as it is pretty much blinding me. I decide against asking to wear Gunari’s master spymaster sunglasses.
After months of training, it is exciting to be on a mission. Seeing the students earlier larking about at the U-Bahn station left me with mixed feelings. The sense of youthful camaraderie highlighted what I had been deprived of yet, on the other hand, my body tingled due to the sheer exhilaration of acting like a real-life secret agent.
Gunari repeatedly told me during training that there is no better experience than the lessons you learn on the job. There is no way of recreating the adrenalin rush but also the pressure of working out a practical solution with time running out. At this point, it is almost like being full of energy but having to hold off from expending it. It is the ultimate feeling of anticipation.
At about half-past four a yellow van pulls up outside the post office. Gunari nudges me even though I spotted it first. I try to act as naturally as a person trying to act naturally would do - looking at my watch and stroking my hair.
“Stop playing with your hair,” Gunari says, “I can’t concentrate,”
The driver pops out of the van. He is defined by a huge beer belly and messy hair, he looks old but on closer inspection may only be around thirty years old. Instead of heading to the wall and taking the post, he walks into the post office. A couple of minutes later he departs with two sacks of mail, which he carelessly hurls into the back of his van.
The big lump pops back into the driver’s seat and the van trundles away keeping pace with the tram alongside it. We both watch the van as it disappears from view, once it has vanished Gunari whistles lightly.
“So how do we see the contents in that letter?” he asks, I look at him and notice he was asking rhetorically as he is looking far off into the distance.
How do we obtain the letter? We can’t touch the fat old man and we can’t break into the post office either.
“The only way I can see that we grab that letter is…” I say and Gunari turns to face me, “...well, it would be to intercept the letter after it’s left the post office and arrives at the sorting office. Is that where it would end up?”
“Yes Ana, that sounds right. Let’s have a think about it tonight and we can work out a plan for the next letter. I’ll give Janko a telephone call and update him,”
Gunari drops more money on the table and we take a slow walk back through the city towards the hotel. It is a warm, heavy evening and the two of us are silent, contemplative of our next actions.
Last Tango in Buenos Aires
Wednesday, 30 April 1986
Our plan is settled upon for tomorrow and Gunari and I have gone to a local bar near our hotel for a few drinks. Gunari says it is the best way to relax before a big occasion. There is a satisfying buzz about the smoky bar, different languages and ages mixing together. Gunari is telling me about the time they nearly captured Albert Tremmick in Argentina.
“I remember the passports we used. My passport claimed my name was Florian Marchand. Janko was Honoré St-Juste. It’s funny how you remember the details. He still buys some of his magazine subscriptions in that name. The whole flight across from Paris it was all I could do to stare at the passport and memorise the details: Born in Paris on the third of June nineteen-thirty. Even now, when someone asks for my date of birth I’m often at a loss to remember which is mine, and which is Florian Marchand’s.
“It was not only my first time on an aeroplane but it was for Janko too. I could tell he was nervous at Orly airport. Travelling around
Europe at the time was easy if you knew the tricks of the trade. But transatlantic flying was a different matter entirely. Even knowing how to behave at an airport was a baffling experience,”
Gunari begins to laugh, a hearty chuckle of times gone by. There is a pleasing hubbub in the bar and I am actually enjoying listening to Gunari’s story. His mutterings of doom have been replaced by the tales of a man who has lived an interesting life.
“I can imagine you two in the airport lounge surrounded by pilots and chic air stewardesses,” I say, joining with the laughter and enjoying the bitter first sips of German lager beer.
“You should have seen us, Janko had bought a brand new tailored suit, he never tired of telling me that it was tailored by a man called Ermenegildo Zegna. He said he was the best suit maker in Italy and that he exchanged it for some German wine and Black Forest ham he had in his car. You know what Janko’s stories are like.
“At Orly, they didn’t even glance at our passports, simply waving us through on to the plane. It wasn’t until the late sixties that hijackings became relatively commonplace. This was still the ‘Golden Age of Flying’. I wish I had savoured the experience rather than looking at that bloody passport. It was only a small airport but it was spotlessly clean and it felt so modern.
“Janko was in love with every air hostess who walked past, especially a little French-Algerian girl called Amina. Every time I looked at him he was regaling her with some invented story about his fake business. She actually seemed quite charmed by him. I was a bag of nervous energy. I drank about ten vodkas on the flight but I couldn’t relax.
“We arrived at Ezeiza airport in Buenos Aires and I had not slept or rested the whole journey. I woke up Janko to tell him we arrived and he told me, ‘I’m staying on the plane and marrying Amina’. Remember Ana, this was my first mission. What you probably feel now, that was me in nineteen-sixty. My sense of humour didn’t stretch to allowing Janko to marry air hostesses. I gave him a quick punch in the guts and told him to get moving.
The Wind and the Rain Page 9
