by Michael Dean
A delighted Gruber picked up Hans-Peter Fauser’s orange peel and put it in his pocket. He took out and opened a small notebook he had purchased at a supermarket. A useful attached pencil came with it, fitting into rings at the top of the notebook. Moving into a pool of light from a lamp post, Gruber wrote the time, date and place and then the words, ‘Dead drop. Small piece of orange peel.’
Then he walked to the freshly dug earth, recently vacated by Himmelfahrt, knelt down and dug up the towel with his hands. He had expected something to be wrapped inside it, but there was nothing. It was just a towel. Now what?
After some thought, he wrapped the orange peel in the towel. He would send towel and orange peel to West German intelligence headquarters in Heilmannstrasse for analysis. They must mean something. Everything meant something.
*
Naomi’s face lit up at the sight of Himmelfahrt. She flung her arms round him. Then …
‘Your hands! They’re covered in earth!’
‘Yeah. I been burying the past,’ said Himmelfahrt, portentously. ‘The towel is buried, ever more to lie in the earth.’
‘What?’
When he explained, she laughed like a bell; her grey eyes shining. They made love ecstatically.
Himmelfahrt left Naomi’s room early in the morning. Visits by the opposite sex, Damenbesuch for men, Herrenbesuch for women, could get any tenant thrown out of a rented room or flat instantly.
*
The following evening, Himmelfahrt sat quietly, breathing deeply, in the empty classroom, after the class had left. He felt humble and grateful because he could satisfy a woman as wonderful as Naomi. He knew she wasn’t lying to him about that. He could do it now. He was alive — finally a member of the human race. He briefly and simply prayed he would never let her down in any way.
Tonight she was cooking for him. She was an unbelievably good cook, even limited by having just two hotplates in her room. Last time she had made him a pork dish with mustard sauce. It was historic. Then they had made love. He had been happy. He, Marcus Himmelfahrt, had been happy. Truly happy, deeply happy, not hysterical surface laughter. Who would have thought that possible?
The moment of what he thought of as communion with Naomi, there in the empty classroom, was broken when Sticky asked him to come into the office. Sticky, never exactly a laugh a minute, looked particularly stern.
‘Your landlord was here again,’ began the eponymous heroine of Himmelfahrt’s obscene song, ‘Feeling Sticky’. ‘He says his wife has been ill, so he has been unable to come earlier, as he wished.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Himmelfahrt.
It was news to him that Frau B was poorly. The illness, it turned out, was a series of headaches, although Herr Biedermeier had darkly hinted as to worse, unmentionable, woes. The headaches were caused by the stress of having Herr Hill as a tenant, and in particular the appalling incident that had happened recently.
‘The question is the visits of women,’ said Frau Stikuta at dictation speed.
The accusation of Damenbesuch had smashed her image of Herr Hill as an innocent little boy. Frau Stikuta felt a fool for having entertained it. She tended, as John de Launay had warned Himmelfahrt when he first arrived, to choose one teacher to have a down on. She was aware of it herself. Up to now it had been Mr de Launay, who didn’t bother to make a fuss of her. But now …
Himmelfahrt sensed danger in her changed attitude.
Frau Stikuta told him of the visit by a prostitute that Herr Biedermeier had graphically described. The shock to him and his wife of finding a woman of the night on the stairs in their own home. Herr Biedermeier’s hands had fluttered like dying butterflies at his breast to convey Dorothea Stoll’s undone buttons and resulting décolletage.
‘I haven’t had any women in,’ breezed Himmelfahrt, confidently. ‘Oh, I know.’ He laughed, remembering the time he was ill in bed. ‘That was Naomi.’
Like any man in love he could not keep the smile off his face at the mention of the beloved’s name. It was the moment he lost his job.
Frau Stikuta’s mouth turned down in the expression she would have as an old woman. She suddenly aged, there in the harsh fluorescent light of the office. She went old and hard with outrage. Frau Plutznick was a respectable woman. A married woman, of impeccable morals. And also the best and easily the most popular teacher the school had ever had. And this … this womaniser, this Lothario leered at the mention of her name. He dared to impugn her character by suggesting she was in his room. Impossible! Outrageous! A barefaced lie!
Frau Stikuta mastered herself, with difficulty. She reached for the reassurance of the list she had made — the written evidence of the accused’s defects she always referred to when rebuking teachers. But this time the list was more delicate. How much of it could she use? These were respectable women. She started with the easiest, unsure exactly how she would proceed.
‘There was Fredrika,’ she accused Himmelfahrt, reading the name from her list. ‘And Lassie.’
Himmelfahrt lost it. He muttered ‘Yeah, I do it with dogs, too,’ in English. Frau Stikuta did not understand what he said but the tone was obvious enough.
‘Be careful, young man,’ she said, blood-curdlingly slowly. ‘Be very careful!’
Tears came to Himmelfahrt’s eyes. He thought the world had become a better place and the sun always shone now, since he could shag like everybody else. But no. Frau Stikuta glanced down at her list and sheer anger overcame her caution at naming respectable names.
‘Frau Weiss,’ she intoned. ‘Don’t try to deny it. She was seen going up to your room. Frau Biedermeier knows her father. There can be no mistake.’ Frau Stikuta paused before intoning the last of Himmelfahrt’s conquests from the charge sheet. ‘And Fräulein Herrold, who by the way comes from a very respectable Ludwigsburg family.’
‘I haven’t been near Fräulein Herrold.’
‘Her fiancé has complained. And you had better watch out, young man. Her fiancé is a policeman.’
Frau Stikuta let the list fall from her hands, as if soiled by its corruption. She stared with righteous anger at the heartless Lothario, the insatiable Don Juan, the conniving Romeo and seducer of innocent German womanhood before her.
Himmelfahrt sighed. He needed to see Naomi. He needed to ask her what to do. He thought of pleading innocence. But there was no way Sticky would believe a word he said now.
And then, incredibly, she let him off (or so he thought at the time).
‘Herr Hill, you have done well here as a teacher so I am giving you one final warning. No more visits of women. Do you understand?’
Himmelfahrt was flooded with relief. ‘Yes, Frau Stikuta. Thank you. I won’t let you down,’ he gushed.
He shook hands; Frau Stikuta reluctantly accepted the gesture, but rescued her hand as soon as possible, for fear of possible contagion. Himmelfahrt fled.
Frau Stikuta shook her head sadly as she closed the office door. She had assured Herr Biedermeier she would get rid of Herr Hill by the end of the month and she meant to. But they would have to find a replacement first, or there would be chaos. She picked up the phone to make her regular late call to her husband at the school in Ulm. Gustav came from a family of preachers. He would have no truck with this filth. One word would be enough.
‘Gustav?’ she said into the phone. There were no preliminaries. ‘Gustav, things have not worked out with Herr Hill. If we are not careful we will lose the Biedermeiers as landlords as well. The issue, I’m afraid, is Damenbesuch.’
At the other end of the line Gustav Stikuta smiled to himself, but then reacted like the missionary’s son he had told Hildegard he was, as opposed to the merchant sailor he had been. ‘Appalling!’ he said ‘Do you want me to come over? Deal with him?’
‘Yes!’ she said, surprised he had even asked.
‘OK. I’ll come as soon as I can. But first put adverts in the usual places. We must have someone lined up as replacement.’
He thought
for a moment of asking Hildegard to get a woman teacher, then thought better of it. He wouldn’t risk it under Hildegard’s nose. ‘See you soon, then,’ he said. And hung up.
Frau Stikuta was strangely discontented. She usually enjoyed getting rid of a teacher and finding a new one. But this one was different from all the others, and she did not know why.
31
Himmelfahrt was peering out the window of the Biederzimmer, searching for Margarethe’s black BMW. Margarethe and Johannes Heer were due to take him to a restaurant. Himmelfahrt hated parting from Naomi, but he was fond of the Heers. And hungry.
A silver-grey Porsche rolled to a halt outside and the Heers clambered out of it. Himmelfahrt ran downstairs. Johannes shook hands and laughingly apologised for the Porsche, saying the BMW was out of action. Himmelfahrt said there was no need to apologise. The Porsche would do fine, he added magnanimously.
The Heers’ 911S model, sloping gracefully like a glinting swan, had glided out of the Porsche factory just weeks ago, up the road in Stuttgart-Zuffenhausen. But, as Johannes smilingly pointed out, the sports car had no back seat to speak of. Himmelfahrt wriggled across the luggage shelf, bracing himself as they roared off at half the 2.2 litre engine’s top speed (144 mph).
*
A furious Gruber watched the car disappear. Until now the spy Hill had walked everywhere, now, suddenly, he was zooming off in a Porsche. Gruber realised, too late, that he had not got the car’s number. In that case, best not to report it. He mooched off, looking forward to a quiet beer in the Linde, round the corner, until the spy came back.
*
Slightly shaken up from his ride in the luggage section of one of the world’s most elite sports cars, Himmelfahrt got out to find they were at Restaurant Mon Repos, the gorgeous lakeside castle’s noshery — the most exclusive in Swabia. He didn’t notice the lake or the castle, beautifully illuminated at night, but he was looking forward to the meal. He was famished.
Inside, Margarethe had removed her camel coat to reveal a low-cut, sleeveless, black velvet evening dress which showed off her creamy skin. She was breathtaking. It occurred to Himmelfahrt that Johannes and Margarethe were content. This evening was a message to him — Goodbye! He smiled, as he did a lot more often these days, thanks to Naomi. Johannes and Margarethe started chatting lightly about the kids and his work, as if they were on their own, but just as he was feeling shut out, one or the other would stop and explain things Himmelfahrt couldn’t know, keeping him involved.
Johannes was elegant and at ease in an eau-de-nil suit and matching tie. He was at the handsomest time of his life; deep lines of experience etching his cheeks, his iron grey hair still thick.
He had ordered the meal in advance. They started with Königinpastete, mushroom concoctions inside a pastry case, before going on to Suppe Madrilaine and Teufelsalat.
The wine for each course was served by the glass; a waiter leaping forward with a top-up if the glass was emptying (which Himmelfahrt’s tended to be). The first wine was amazing.
‘Nectar of the Gods,’ said Himmelfahrt in English, as he sipped it. And then in German. ‘What kind of wine is it?’
Johannes smiled. ‘Heilbronner Ochsenberg Riesling Natur. It’s a good year. 1967. I chose it myself.’
‘Well chosen.’ He glanced at Margarethe. ‘But then you have good taste.’
Both of them smiled at the unsubtle, rather clichéd compliment.
Johannes, in his slow but accurate English, told Himmelfahrt a bit of Ludwigsburg gossip: Beate Brenner was planning to break her marriage vows. She was about to leave her husband and run off with a friend of his from the Chess Club, a much younger man by the name of Hans-Peter Fauser. Johannes appeared to know that Beate’s husband, Dr Manfred Brenner, was a pupil of Himmelfahrt’s. The story was obviously told with a purpose. Noel Coward once said he did not stoop to symbolism, but Johannes Heer evidently did.
‘What do you think of that?’ asked Johannes, eyes hard on Himmelfahrt.
‘Poor Dr Brenner,’ said Himmelfahrt, carefully.
‘Yes. Poor Dr Brenner.’
In his honour, Johannes had ordered ‘Roastbeef englisch’ (though it was served with pommes frites) with vegetables which included asparagus — presumably flown in as it was well out of season. When the beef arrived, Himmelfahrt could not take his eyes off it. It was pink, succulent, tender; prime Aberdeen Angus given the lightest of roastings.
At the end of the main course, Margarethe excused herself with an air of a lady leaving the boys to talk about boy things. Himmelfahrt resisted the powerful temptation to watch her walk away in the tight black dress, though every other man in the room, including Johannes, did just that.
As soon as she was gone, Johannes Heer came to the point. Taking a sip of wine he said, ‘Herr Hill, for some time I have been afraid I would lose my beautiful wife.’
Taking his cue from Johannes’ bluntness Himmelfahrt said ‘Yes, I know.’
‘I feared she wanted more than I could give her. Excitement. Perhaps someone younger.’
‘I think she wanted to look at those things,’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘For a while.’
‘She likes you very much, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know that, Herr Heer. And I like her. And not only because she is beautiful.’
This was so obviously sincere that both of them smiled. Himmelfahrt went on. ‘I always tried to look after her, you know,’ he said. ‘And I think I succeeded.’
‘You only think?’
Himmelfahrt thought of her naked on Hermann Schaffner’s bed, when he had rescued her seconds before Hermann could have her. He was proud of what he had done. He swallowed his wine, Beaujolais Superieur 1966, finishing the glass, which was immediately refilled.
‘No, I know I looked after her.’ He grinned. ‘I did a good job.’
Himmelfahrt realised they were both talking as if this phase in their lives had finished. It had. Hermann Schaffner’s party had scared Margarethe. She had promised Johannes that this wild time of her life was over. She had also told him Mark Hill had been a good friend, who had protected her. Johannes still had secret doubts about what sort of friend he had been — he had seen two of the clandestine kisses on the mouth Himmelfahrt had exchanged with his wife at his home. But he had no doubt it was all over. This was the celebration. Johannes Heer and Himmelfahrt shook hands.
32
The weather was cold and crisp with winter skies unusually clear for Ludwigsburg. Himmelfahrt and Naomi were taking a morning walk along the Neckar, along Otto-Konz-Weg, the path to the open-air swimming pool in Schlösslesfeld. Endless hot days at the pool filled Naomi’s cherished memories of Ludwigsburg’s steamy summers.
She was talking about the weekend she had spent with her husband, Hartmut Plutznick. She was tearful. She was a born one-man woman, and two men wanting her did not make her feel flattered; it was tearing her apart.
‘I wake up in the morning and I don’t know who I’m in bed with,’ she said, with a sob in her voice.
She knew who she was in love with, though. When Himmelfahrt held her she wanted to stay there and stay there, and wish the world away. She felt happy the second she saw him, bouncing up to meet her. Whenever they arranged to meet, he was there exactly when he said he would be. That was enormously important to her. After forever being let down by men it spoke of caring, of commitment, of needing her.
He said nothing but gently stroked her face as it nestled on his shoulder. He noticed a bruised lump near her ear. She had tried to cover it up with make-up.
‘What happened here,’ he said, touching it tenderly with his fingertips.
‘I slipped and fell against the door.’
‘No, you bloody didn’t.’
They were silent, thinking about the Christmas holidays, looming up threateningly. Hartmut Plutznick would come back from his course at Tübingen. He would be in the little room in Schumannstrasse the whole time. They wouldn’t be able to see each other at all. Neither of them
thought they could bear it.
‘Let’s go, Naomi. Let’s just fuck off out of here. Back to England. We just pack up a few things, take the train. Go.’
It thrilled her. She held on tight to him. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Oh yes!’
They kissed, then decided to go for a Glühwein somewhere to warm up. You could get a drink at the Swimming Club, by the pool, at the top of Otto-Konz-Weg. Naomi was worried about going into a pub so near the Plutznick family home, just over the river in Neckarweihingen. Himmelfahrt poo-pooed her fears and prevailed.
Inside the near deserted Swimming Club, Naomi was still uneasy. The landlady knew her from languorous summers at the pool. But, as Himmelfahrt said, why shouldn’t two colleagues go for a mulled wine together?
You could see the Neckar out the wood-framed windows, churning brown and green after the recent rain. After the landlady had served them, chatting with Naomi about the joys of last summer, Himmelfahrt held Naomi’s hand, as he always did, even in public. He kissed her gently on the lips between sips of the fragrant, mulled wine, saying, ‘What the hell, there’s nobody here.’
But there was. Mainhardt Plutznick had come in for a drink, seen them kissing, then slipped quietly out again. Naomi glimpsed him as he left.
‘You look worried,’ said Himmelfahrt, seeing the by now familiar downturn of her bottom lip. ‘Don’t be.’
But she was. She had remembered old Julius’s gun.
33
Katya Brenner never rushed into anything, not at any time in her life. She collected information, turned it over in her mind, analysed. She gathered the opinions of people she respected, like her friend Arno Götsch. And then she waited until a course of action ‘felt right’. Her decisions were her own. Always her own.
She was deaf to her father’s pleas to tell him what was wrong. When he tried to bully and browbeat it out of her, she was even more determined to take her time to reach her decision.
When it felt right, Katya knew she would interview her father about the past. That was how she thought of it; not a talk, not a discussion, not a trial — an interview. The books she had read in preparation for the interview were spread on the floor in her bedroom, with neatly cut slips of paper marking relevant passages. She wanted the books around her, although she knew the passages she needed by heart.
