The Wind and the Rain

by Martin O'Brien

  “I think so,”

  “I hope so, Ana. Right, let’s head to the post office,”

  Janko speeds up and overtakes the traffic and a few minutes later we are outside the post office on Kurfürstenplatz eating chewy kürtőskalács that Gunari bought in a Hungarian bakery earlier today.

  “Where did you buy the van?” I ask. It’s after five o’clock and the post van is clearly late, I’m sure it’s made up of seven different vans haphazardly welded together.

  “A friend of Boris’s. I think it may have seen a little nefarious action in the past. He said it won’t be traced back to the owner. Are all our things back in your rucksack?”

  “It’s all in there,”

  “He’s here, make sure your seat belt is on, champ,”

  Gunari is right, the garish yellow van has pulled up outside the post office. The scruffy van driver hops out and he might have actually had a hair cut. Perhaps there’s a girl in the post office that he’s trying to impress. Little does he know that this evening’s shift is destined to be one he would prefer to forget. Although he may gain another story to impress his sweetheart.

  Finally, after an interminable wait of over ten minutes (maybe he does have a fancy woman in there after all), the van driver exits the building, tosses the sole mailbag from the post office into the back, closes the doors and enters the driving seat. Within seconds he begins to pull away.

  Gunari keeps pace with the van and maintains a position right behind him, there’s no real need to keep a great distance. The last thing the van driver will be expecting is two Romani lunatics chasing him around the streets of Munich. I check my map against the road and I don’t think we are too far from where our plan should culminate.

  Gunari gestures to the right which is the BMW factory so we prepare to pull off the road. As expected, the van driver pulls off Georg-Brauchle Ring towards the Olympiastadion. Sneaky van driver hopes to shave a vital minute from his journey again. Unfortunately, today’s circumvention will be coming to an abrupt intervention. Gunari follows him around the junction and towards the car park.

  On our left the rising metallic canopies of the Olympiastadion roof tower over us like giant circus tents. The van driver sticks to the road on his cheeky short cut back to the depot. Gunari pulls right on to the huge car park parallel to the driver’s road and rapidly accelerates.

  I look across and the van driver is maintaining his speed, he hasn’t noticed our van hitting a much faster pace with the occasional rows of trees separating us. Gunari has lined up our paths for convergence. The van driver is unaware that we are now heading straight for him.

  “Brace yourself, Ana,”

  Christ, I’m braced like you wouldn’t believe.

  Gunari cuts the wheel even sharper and prepares for impact. Finally, the post van driver notices us but it’s too late. I catch a glimpse of his incredulous face but a moment later everything becomes noise.

  The crunch of metal sounds sickeningly loud. The post van crunches and sadly spins away in a slow-motion arc across the tarmac.

  Our van is stopped abruptly and Gunari and I both are flung forward. Luckily the seatbelts hold out and my only injury is when my right arm flies out to protect myself and cracks against the dashboard.

  From the violent noise of the impact follows the post-crash quiet. I look at Gunari, he is in a trance. I nudge him with my left arm and it takes him a few seconds for him to come back to the general vicinity of planet earth and, more specifically, the Olympic Park in Munich.

  “OK?” he says finally.

  “Staying alive,” I say, “Come on, let’s find that letter.”

  We both escape out of the car and I can see the front of our van is a crumpled mess. Shit, this was a big accident.

  I’m wary about checking the van driver. Is he injured or angry and out for blood?

  I inch towards his door and Gunari heads to the back of the van. The back doors are hanging off which should help us.

  The van driver is slumped in his seat, blood is careering down his nose from a wound above his eye. He looks conscious but out of it. I knock on the window and all he can do is move his arms, he doesn’t look towards me so I forget about him and head to the back.

  Gunari is already looking in the first sack of mail, rifling through with careless abandon.

  “Slower,” I shout, “It was the last stop so it’ll be in this bag. Sort it carefully and catch the right one, OK?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Here, you take a look.”

  I start checking the letters one by one. Manilla envelope, A4 - there are quite a few in this sack but it doesn’t take long for me to spot the one we need.

  “This is it,” I say lifting the letter like it is the Holy Grail, I hand it to Gunari, who eyeballs it suspiciously. It’s not a bomb Gunari, for the love of God.

  “Are you sure Ana?” Gunari is face to face with me. I can hear nearby sirens.

  “One hundred per cent. Put it in my rucksack and let’s get out of here,”

  Gunari points me towards the far end of the car park, away from the stadium. We jog off towards the dual carriageway, there is an underpass I can see which will take us to the other side. I turn around and see two policemen running after us about three hundred metres away.

  “Hurry!” I shout to Gunari, despite him being ahead of me and a much faster runner despite being over three decades older than me, “Police!”

  We burst out of the underpass and a garish tangerine coloured apartment block is on our right. Gunari shouts for me to follow him. We continue along the path taking us past more apartments. We run over the road at a big junction barely acknowledging the traffic and run past people playing tennis on clay courts.

  I could run for hours. Talk about reaping the benefits of my training regime. Unless the police chasing us are former fifteen-hundred metres Olympic finalists they won’t be catching me. Apart from the fact that I don’t know where I am. I’m relying on Gunari’s knowledge of suburban Munich and I hope it is up to scratch.

  We fly past another much smaller stadium and into another car park, I hear distant voices telling us to stop. No chance of that. I spot the U-Bahn station sign and Gunari hurtles down four steps at a time which I attempt to recreate. I stumble on the last step and fall over again bumping my sore arm and knocking the wind out of me. I am lying on the floor of the platform with my head by the bottom step. I open my eyes see the two cops at the top of the stairs and I fear this is the point where my adventure ends and my prison sentence begins.

  Next Stop Berlin

  Thursday, 1 May 1986

  I hear train doors clanking open. A huge hand hovers over me and grabs me by the scruff of my t-shirt. It is Gunari who pretty much drags me on to the train as the doors close. The train begins to pull out of the blue-tinted station as the policemen arrive downstairs.

  I rest my clammy forehead on the window and I make eye contact with one of the police officers as we move out of his jurisdiction. I give the policeman a cheeky wink and he looks bloody furious as he bangs on the train windows as we pull away. I turn to check on Gunari who is sporting the most tremendous grin I have ever seen.

  “That was closer than I anticipated,” Gunari says, the sweat pouring down his face reminds me of a craggy cliff-face in the middle of a rainstorm.

  “It’s definitely not leather jacket weather. That was your big problem,” I reply.

  I sniff my armpits and I immediately regret it. Luckily there aren’t many passengers on the train to be repulsed by my malodorous body. I lean against the doors for support. Although I was confident of outrunning the cops, I don’t fancy doing it again when we get off the train. I try to take as much air in as I can as the train trundles through the city.

  After two stops trying to regain our breath, we disembark at Rotkreuzplatz station. Thankfully, there are no police around so we amble the short walk to Donnersbergerbrücke S-Bahn and catch the train back to the main train station.

  We step off th
e train and enter what looks like a big greenhouse. There are a lot of passengers and we attempt to merge in with a large group of middle-aged couples as we head down the platform. Luckily no one checked for tickets on the train and no train station staff are waiting on the platform.

  Near the exit, I spot four men in green tunics who appear to be on guard. I nudge Gunari and we de-merge from the group and head to one of the tobacconist stands where we peruse the magazines.

  “What shall we do?” I say, worry creeping over me. I can’t face going to prison and being deported to Yugoslavia. The excitement of the mission has now given way to panic.

  “Calm down Ana,” Gunari says, pointing at a magazine aimed at aviation enthusiasts. He takes off his leather jacket and places it on the floor, “Let’s walk through normally, right past them,”

  He must be mad. Gunari turns to me and winks and we both turn around and head towards the exit. Gunari aims for the middle of the policemen and he apologises as he slices through the group. The police allow us through and I almost hear my stomach lurch to the floor as we pass.

  We keep walking and cross the road. I daren’t look around in case the cops are waiting for me to do so. It might be their signal to chase and arrest me. We walk around the corner and I can see our hotel a hundred metres away.

  Finally, we arrive at our hotel. The hotel manager nods curtly at us and I say “Good evening!” about four times as loud as any normal person would do. A man reading a newspaper in the lobby looks up at me and tuts so I blow him a kiss. Gunari presses the lift button and the doors part within a second.

  In the lift, I close my eyes. I have a terrible premonition that when the lift doors open a dozen armed police will be pointing their guns at me. I hear the doors divide and I am frozen to the spot.

  “Come on,” Gunari says. I open my eyes and there is nothing in front except a painting of a fairy-tale castle emerging from a snowy forest. I exit the lift and trot to catch up with Gunari. I already have my key ready to open the door.

  I enter my hotel room with Gunari close behind me. I flop onto my bed, lie out like a starfish and close my eyes.

  “Hey, this is no time for sleep,” Gunari’s voice has never sounded more infuriating. I open one eye and tell him:

  “I’m not sleeping,” I can’t even be bothered explaining that I could do with a few minutes to gather my thoughts following our kamikaze antics and journey back to our hotel worrying that any of the cops would pull us in.

  I spring back up and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “So,” I say, “Are we taking a look at the letter?” Gunari looks at me, begins to speak then puts a finger up and stop. He walks off to the telephone near the window and dials a number which sounds like it contains about thirty numbers too many. Gunari holds the phone to his ear. I’m not sure if he realises he is still holding his finger up on the other hand.

  “Janko!” Gunari exclaims excitedly, “Janko, my friend, the mission was successful and we are now in possession of Paul Beckermann’s letter,”

  I can hear chatter babbling out of the earpiece from my spot four metres away. Janko sounds unsurprisingly in high spirits too.

  “Ana, put the kettle on,” Gunari says to me and his pointy finger has turned to a wavy finger directing me towards the kettle. Funny time to have a cup of coffee. I walk to the kettle which is empty. I take it into the bathroom sink to fill up with water before placing it back on the base and turning it on.

  Gunari is holding the letter and I realise that Gunari isn’t fulfilling a great thirst but is going to steam the letter open. I’ve seen enough spy films to recognise this classic technique. I look in my rucksack and take out the Polaroid camera. Gunari looks at me and winks.

  I bring the freshly boiled kettle over to Gunari and say “Hi, Janko!” near the phone. Gunari holds the envelope over the kettle while managing to lodge the phone between his ear and shoulder. I help him out by grabbing the envelope and gently peeling the flap back.

  “Carefully,” Gunari whispers.

  After a minute or so the flap separates from the body. I open the envelope and pull out a sheet of paper with two columns. It has been typed up on a typewriter, presumably by Beckermann.

  The left-hand column is a list of random six-digit numbers, the column on the right is numbered from one to thirty-one - surely relating to the amount of days in May. There is nothing else in the letter, Gunari informs Janko.

  “Janko has asked the address,” Gunari says, even though I’m so close to the phone I can hear him myself.

  “Michael Schwarzer, Apartment 8, 87 Sebastianstraße, Berlin,”

  “Is that West or East Berlin?” I’m not sure if Gunari is asking Janko or me.

  “I don’t know,” I say and it appears Janko isn’t sure yet either. Gunari holds the line and I can picture Janko pulling out his Berlin street guide. A few minutes pass and finally I faintly hear Janko’s voice say ‘West Berlin’.

  “Right, OK. I’ll call you before we leave Munich. We’ll see you in Berlin,” Gunari hangs up the phone and looks at me, “Kreuzberg, West Berlin,”

  “Is it easier for us to get into West Berlin?” I ask, confused about how part of a city in the middle of East Germany could be part of West Germany.

  “I don’t think anything is going to be easy from now on Ana,”

  “Have you been to Berlin before?”

  “Many times when I was younger, the last time was a few years ago but that didn’t end so well,” Gunari looks down at his arm and I notice he is looking at the tattoo on his inner right arm. Four letters spell out the word NURI. I consider asking Gurani what it means but I decide against it now. I think he will tell me in his own time.

  “We will leave tomorrow, Boris should be leaving a car outside for us. I’ll take the letter and reseal it. We can post it tomorrow at the station. Try to go to sleep now Ana,” Janko takes the letter and heads back to his room.

  I doubt I’ll be sleeping after the day I’ve had. I hope the postman is OK, he looked in a bad way when we left him. His girl will miss him tomorrow at the post office too, I would imagine.

  The man might not be aware but indirectly he is ultimately helping us to remove a pernicious influence from society. I have no idea who Michael Schwarzer is but I know he is helping protect a Nazi who performed vile experiments on children.

  Gunari returns to his room to speak with Janko. I put on jogging bottoms and leave the hotel to go running. Two hours of blasting my way around the clean streets and the English Gardens helps clear my head. I return back to the hotel and slump my exhausted body into bed.

  Messiah

  Thursday, 1 May 1986

  My joints are relishing the sweet relief resulting from the arrival of this spell of warm weather. The pain in my knees has been the worst I can remember over the last couple of weeks. On Monday morning, it took me over an hour to step out of bed and stumble the short journey to the bathroom. Each step was agony, pains shooting up from my heel and splintering like thorny tree-roots across the backs of my thighs.

  Every time I placed a foot down on the floor, I was unable to hold the pain inside and I cried out. About halfway to the bathroom, I was in tears, a throwback to being a silly schoolboy. Tears of shame on top of tears of pain. When I finally reached the sink I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  A tired old man stared back. A man with leathery, tanned skin, sharp red jagged lines interlacing my eyes and a sweaty pock-marked forehead. An old man who can barely hold a glass of water without spilling some of it over the sides due to the shakes. If only there was something I could do about these damnable tremors.

  The last doctor I visited in the summer was an embarrassment to our profession. At no point did he make eye contact with his patient or actually listen to a word of what I was telling him. He would sit there nodding, looking at his notepad and then he prescribed the same ineffectual medicines exactly like the last doctor.

  I sat there as compliant as any typical ageing va
letudinarian. This young clown had no idea that my medical skills far exceeded his limited knowledge. I craved knowledge about some new and effective treatment. The doctor had clearly not read The New England Journal of Medicine since he graduated. I maintained a dignified silence rather than hectoring him on his shortcomings. It wouldn’t achieve anything. Perhaps it is time to contact Karl and ask him to prioritise trials relating to my worsening condition.

  Thankfully, the weather has finally taken a turn for the better. Since my travails on Monday, the pain has subsided so much that it has taken me by surprise. I have gone for a couple of long walks around town after which I felt much more clear-headed and healthy. In my opinion, a lot of issues that elderly people suffer could be alleviated by regular exercise. If only the pain was more manageable I would take a long saunter around the streets every day.

  After the effort of flying to Munich to meet Paul in that grotty bar, life has now settled down again into a similar pattern. Maybe I was too hard on Paul regarding his grandson and Paul’s subsequent breach of convention in twice telephoning me at home. Nothing suspicious has occurred despite my extensive checks.

  I will probably send Joachim home too in the next few days. There isn’t much point in him being here with me although the help with carrying my shopping will be missed. He’s an honest man, not many brains but he possesses robust morals which I respect. Not many young people have that kind of selfless attitude these days.

  As I wallowed in pain over the winter, my mind was fixated on the belief that the Israelis would send a team over to kill me. Thoughts of those degenerate pigs coming to my home and shooting me in the head crashed around my brain. Every day I double-checked every lock, peeked behind every door and investigated all the potential hiding places in the house. I would stare out of the window for hours scrutinising everyone. After weeks of doing this, every single person appeared suspicious to me. It was hopeless. I was hopeless. In March, Joachim arrived to keep an eye out.