by Michael Dean
‘But that’s only …’
‘Part of it. Yeah, I know, Naomi. I know. And I’m proud, proud as hell of the rest it. Yes, yes. Proud of our football team, captained by Einstein, Freud on the right wing, Marx on the left wing. Not to mention Jesus. Except he applied for a transfer and started his own Football League. And I identify with all that. I really do. I support Spurs for God’s sake. And the State of Israel. I cheered when we won the ’67 war. My family bought trees for me in Israel. I’m making the fucking desert bloom. Even as we speak. What more can I fucking do? I just don’t want the Jewish family that I came from. I don’t want Jewish kids.’
Naomi spoke softly: ‘Marcus, your children will be very proud of you. No matter who their mother is.’
‘Yeah, well children are going to be a bit of a problem, Naomi. You know?’
‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid. What are you on about? What problem?’
Himmelfahrt came close to her and looked at her. Naomi looked serious, a little tense but not apprehensive.
‘Naomi, I can’t do it. With women. I can’t. It isn’t there.’
‘What? You mean sex? But I thought you said … On your first night in Ludwigsburg, you went to Seestrasse, you said. And …’
‘Yeah, I lied. I’m full of shit like that. On my first night in Ludwigsburg, Naomi, I learned a bit of German and had a wank.’
Her first reaction was, ‘What a bloody waste.’ She registered the slim, tapering figure, the voice with its non-stop flirting, and those hands …
‘You obviously haven’t met the right girl, that’s all. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
They looked at each other and both burst out laughing. When Naomi spoke again she was completely at ease. ‘I thought you were … Oh, you know, all those women from the classes.’
‘Huh! Chance’d be a fine thing.’
‘Would it?’
He looked at her. ‘No. Not right now.’
There was a huge log with a scooped-out middle, smoothed to make a seat for children to watch the story tableaux. Naomi sat on it, Himmelfahrt sat next to her.
‘You’ll find the right girl,’ Naomi said, warmly. ‘Probably very soon, too.’
‘Naomi, I’ve tried five times.’
‘Five … And you loved these girls, did you?’
‘No, of course not. Two of them were prostitutes. Hey, how d’you reckon it is that hookers do so well in literature? The tart with a heart and all that shit. And they’re always portrayed as beautiful. On telly and in films. The ones I went with were plain if not downright ugly and they were complete cows to me. Took all my money, humiliated me.’
‘Oh Marcus! What about the others? Did you love them?’
‘No! Carol, the American girl from St Hughes was nice. Clever. Nice tits. But it still didn’t happen. I froze. I ran. I … you’ll laugh.’
‘Have I laughed so far?’
‘I was sick. I was sick every time. Retching, anyway. I get sick now if there’s even the threat of sex. And no, I’m not queer, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t. Never occurred to me. Women do know these things, you know.’
‘Yeah, I suppose they …’
That’s as far as they got, because they started kissing. She did make one half-hearted attempt to break away, to say she was married. But as she pulled her head back he screamed, ‘Naomi, I think it’s going to be OK.’
That did it. She got off the log-seat, took her mac off and rolled it in a sausage shape. Then she lay down on the sodden grass with the mac under her bottom. It was freezing and she knew she would get the mac muddy, but what the hell. He got on top of her, furiously kissing her and taking the top part of her clothes off. Then she forgot about the mac. It was nice.
While he was taking his trousers off and rolling his pants down to just below his knees, she took her tights and knickers off and arched up to make it easier for him. He was tremendously excited by touching her breasts and was easily stiff enough as she took hold of him and guided him in. It didn’t last long but it was, most definitely, sex.
When he came he howled.
‘I’ve still got my pants on,’ he yelled. ‘They’re round my fucking knees. That’s where I went wrong, all this time. I shoulda kept my pants on! Naomi! I did it! I did it! Oh darling, thank you. Thank you!’
He was still inside her. He pulled out, detumesced, cried, just for a minute or so. ‘Did you come?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘But it was very nice.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You will next time.’
She had no doubt about that, having seen what she had seen and felt what she had felt. If there was a next time, that is. Happily there was, about twenty minutes later. And she did come. At the same time as him.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly again, then. And he tenderly touched her face. He smiled. ‘Dankeschön.’
That was the only word Gruber understood. He didn’t speak a word of English.
29
Anna Schweinle lived alone in a tiny but light third-floor flat with views over the allotments. There were red and white check gingham curtains at the kitchenette windows. Pansies bloomed in a hand-thrown blue vase on the pine table. The rubber plant in the corner was lovingly sprayed and tended. The piles of Bunte and Stern in the bottom shelves of the pine unit that housed the record player were always neatly aligned.
Everything spoke of the tidy self-sufficiency of Anna Schweinle’s life. If you looked closely you could see privacy too, in chairs that were never sat on and sets of glasses that were never used. She invited few people to her sanctum sanctorum.
But this evening, as she paced up and down by the glow of a glass table lamp, she felt she could not cope alone. Johanna von Gravensburg had been sacked, sacked without references by ITT. There were ‘irregularities’ in a marketing survey about TV sets. This compromised all the surveys she had ever carried out for the company.
Anna, in tears, had burst into Frau von Gravensburg’s office and said she and Fredrika would go immediately to the head of the division, Thomas Rommel, and explain. It was their fault, not Frau von Gravensburg’s. They, not she, had made up the responses on some questionnaires. But it was too late. The procedures had already been set in motion. And, as Johanna von Gravensburg herself gently explained, she was ultimately responsible for what happened in her own department.
She gave a rueful smile. ‘I should have checked the responses more carefully.’
‘You didn’t because you trusted me,’ Anna blurted out, bitterly.
There was silence to that, because it was true. As soon as Anna left her office, Johanna von Gravensburg sighed and looked round. She had been given an hour to clear her desk. Naomi Prince, her English teacher, who she thought of as a friend, had asked for her help, ages ago. She had forgotten about it, and now felt bad. But she would do everything she could, in the short time left when she could still use the ITT name.
She thought quickly, then picked up the telephone. There were only half a dozen publishers who could have set up a large mail order book operation like the one Elvira Plutznick subscribed to. It took her ten minutes on the telephone to find the publisher she wanted.
When she phoned the company, in the name of the head of ITT’s legal department, she was immediately transferred to the senior executive who had thought up the book scheme. Clearly, confidently and not at all aggressively she pointed out various legal rights and protections enjoyed by Elvira Plutznick. Any information she did not know, she made up. She parenthetically, almost carelessly, indicated possible courses of legal action if Fräulein Plutznick’s rights were not adhered to.
There was no argument from the other end of the phone. Before she had even finished, arrangements were made for Fräulein Plutznick to post all the books back. All monies paid would be refunded. Including postage.
With her last hour at ITT fast running out, Johann
a von Gravensburg then scribbled a note to Naomi, telling her what had been arranged and where to send the books. She was determined to make use of ITT headed notepaper, for the last time. She would deliver the letter by hand at the language school on her way home. The English lessons might have to stop. They still had her husband’s salary but even so …
She was putting the letter in an envelope as two blue-uniformed men from Security came into her office and pointedly looked at their watches.
*
When Johanna von Gravensburg had come in to Anna’s office to say goodbye, ignoring Fredrika, who fled, she begged Anna not to do anything hasty. She forbade her (Johanna’s word) to resign. Weeping on Johanna’s shoulder, Anna had promised, but now she was not so sure.
Pacing in her flat, Anna Schweinle was flooded with anger. It was a sacking matter, she could see that. But even so they had thrown the book at Johanna because she was an outsider, an Austrian. Exhausted from misery, Anna postponed further thought until tomorrow. The only thing she knew for sure was she could not spend tonight alone.
Yet again she longed for a girlfriend in her tidy, ordered life. Tonight was badminton at ITT’s sports centre in Bietigheim; Tuesdays English at Sprachschule Stikuta; Wednesday Ladies Self-Defence (judo and karate) at the Catholic Girls Club in Karlsplatz; Thursdays advanced lifesaving and diving at the indoor swimming pool in Solitudestrasse. And there would be a drink and a chat after all of them and no real friend at any of them.
But anyway, Anna admitted to herself, what she really wanted right now was not a girly chat but a cuddle from a man. Arms round her. Strong arms. She smiled for the first time in ages at what she would have to do to get a cuddle. Could be worse! She was in no doubt which man to go to. You could talk to him. He was clever, even wise. And she remembered how strongly she had reacted when he had touched her. Feeling a little, just a little, better, Anna ran a bath and started to get herself ready to go to John de Launay.
*
Himmelfahrt had arranged to see John de Launay too, for a small, (very small) but immaculately prepared dinner. He was sitting in the Deutsches Haus feeling disappointed.
A few moments ago, he had been waiting in the classroom with a neatly written list of all Dr Brenner’s mistakes from the last lesson, plus corrections, when Sticky had come in and said that Dr Brenner had cried off. Naomi was teaching, so Himmelfahrt had headed for the Deutsches Haus alone, to get something to eat before John made him his dinner.
He munched at the enormous mound of Schwäbischer Wurstsalat, delicious strips of noodle, ham and cheese all covered in an excellent light, homemade mayonnaise. He was washing it down with a Halbe of beer. He calculated how many hours it would be before he saw Naomi again. She insisted he kept up his visits to John, though he wanted to see her every night. And every day. And every moment. He finished his meal, told the owner, a Yugoslav called Lozusic Bilic, how much he had enjoyed it, and left a large tip. Then he went to John’s.
When he rang the bell, there was no reply. He rang again. And again. Finally, instead of activating the buzzing device that opened the outside door, John came down. Gangling in the doorway, he said something had come up. He couldn’t see Himmelfahrt that evening, he would see him tomorrow at the school. He shut the door.
Himmelfahrt was indignant, thoroughly pissed off. He trudged back to the main road. He had given up an evening with the woman he loved to keep faith with his friend, which was really good of him (he had by now forgotten it was Naomi’s idea) and look how he was treated!
But Himmelfahrt understood the reason. John had found out about him and Naomi and didn’t approve. Well, tough titties, John. Tough titties.
*
John de Launay ran up the stairs, back into his bedsit, where Anna Schweinle lay naked in his bed.
‘Who was it?’ she asked him, going up on one elbow, teasing, amused.
‘Mark,’ he said, struggling to get undressed again as quickly as possible.
‘That idiot.’
‘Oh, he’s alright. Timing is not exactly his strong point, though.’
They made love and Anna let him have the sleep all men seemed to need afterwards. Finally, she got her cuddle and told him about Frau von Gravensburg.
John did not let her down. He listened attentively, held her while she cried and even managed to say something useful. ‘I imagine they’ll go back to Austria,’ he said, thoughtfully, smoking a Sobranie in bed. ‘The Austrians usually do when they’ve made their pile here. Herr von Gravensburg could get another job easily enough back home and actually so could she. They’ll be OK.’
She kissed him for that.
Anna rolled over luxuriously in John de Launay’s bed. She asked John when he would go home, back to England. She stroked his now tousled ginger hair.
‘This is my home,’ John said, looking at her seriously. ‘I feel more at home in Germany than I do in England. I’ll never go back.’
‘Would you become a German citizen?’
‘No,’ said John, unequivocally.
‘What about the other teachers? Do they like it here in Germany? Do they want to stay?’
‘Well, Naomi of course is married here and will stay here. Even though …’
Anna shrugged a lovely bare shoulder. The shrug managed economically to convey that she required no more detail about another woman right now.
‘And then there’s Mark, of course,’ John went on. ‘He’s very pro-German. His spoken German has come on astonishingly well. Most of the pupils like him, though some take against his … manner. My guess is he’ll stay. Make his home here.’
*
Anna Schweinle slid gracefully out of John’s bed in the early hours of the morning. He was still sleeping.
Being a curious girl, interested in her fellow humans, Anna had a look round in John’s kitchenette, then, on impulse, she opened the door of the wardrobe. She looked for a second in disbelief at the SS uniform, still adorned with medals and a piece of decomposing ratatouille on the collar. She let out a piercing shriek. And then another. And then a full-blooded scream.
As John got out of bed, she flew at him. She was a girl and she was naked but there was none of the demure slapping round the face then in vogue. Neither did she use the judo or karate she had so dedicatedly learned week after week at the Catholic Girls Club in Karlsplatz. She closed her fists and pummelled him in the face. Then she pulled him down by the hair and one arm; swinging a leg at him, kicking with her heel.
John de Launay defended himself as best he could by putting his arms up and crouching to protect his groin. One didn’t, of course, hit a woman (even if she was hitting one) but she battered him so thoroughly he couldn’t have got a blow in if he’d wanted to.
30
Himmelfahrt had gone home from John’s house by bus. He was in his room, about to set off for Naomi’s place, round the corner, but there was something he had to do first, a ceremony, a ritual. He fished out the wanking towel from the bottom of his backpack, smelling for the last time that distinctive old fish smell.
He stuffed the towel in the pocket of his jacket, as best he could. Why on earth hadn’t he brought a mac? Well, he defended himself, how was he to know he’d be walking through the streets of West Germany late at night with his wanking towel?
Outside, he looked for waste paper baskets on the concrete lamp posts. Did they have them here? He’d never noticed. There certainly didn’t seem to be any in Ossweil. An old lady loomed in the darkness, armoured into an overcoat, with one of those domed hats with a brim and a feather in it which they all wore. She glowered at him. He guiltily shoved the wanking towel deeper into his pocket.
He remembered his first day; the cemetery. He knew where it was by now, even in the dark. He headed briskly for it. There it was. He had forgotten how spare and bleak German cemeteries were compared to ours. But there was a narrow flower bed round the perimeter, with earth soft from the recent rain.
Himmelfahrt looked round. There was a big bloke in th
e distance, just visible in the light from a lamp post, but he had stopped and was now walking the other way. Himmelfahrt bent down and started to scoop earth with his hands. It was mucky work, but still the hole needn’t be too deep. In five minutes the blue and yellow towel was buried — actually and symbolically and forever — in West German soil.
Himmelfahrt considered saying a few formal words of farewell, but nothing was prescribed in custom or ceremony for the interment of a wanking towel, and nothing spontaneous occurred. He hesitated a moment, considering the opening words of the Jewish mourner’s kadish, which he remembered from funerals of aged relatives at Golders Green cemetery, but that did seem rather disrespectful. There was the Swedish national anthem, possibly, but he didn’t know the words.
Shaking as much cloying earth off his hands as he could, he hurried off to Naomi’s room in Schlösslesfeld.
*
This presented Siegfried Gruber with a dilemma. The spy Mark Hill had just revealed his dead drop — a considerable breakthrough. But how to take best advantage? Digging up whatever Hill had buried would mean losing the spy himself. Ideally, Gruber should have a colleague to watch the drop while he followed agent Hill. But by the time he radio’d for someone else, another British spy could have picked up whatever Hill had dropped, in the drop.
Gruber decided the drop was more important. He would let Hill go for now; pick him up again later from his room. The contents of the drop should be reported to Herr Neumann at BND headquarters in Munich immediately. Gruber was pleased with his decision.
Gruber looked round for orange peel, which was frequently used to mark dead drops. He scanned the flower beds for signs of fruit. Ah, there! There was indeed a small piece of orange peel! (In fact, it had been carelessly dropped by Hans-Peter Fauser, who often walked through the cemetery near his home, eating the oranges he had adored since early childhood.)
