by Michael Dean
‘That’s him! Go, go, go!!’ he yelled at Robert.
Robert lurched the van forwards towards the vile seducer. Himmelfahrt ran across the road, instantly wet to the skin; the lancing rain piercing right through his jacket, soaking through his shirt. Mario was yelling wildly, livid that the Plutznick honour had been besmirched by such a shrimp. Naomi could do a lot better: himself, for example.
Himmelfahrt had never seen his employer, so did not recognise him. He changed the angle of his run to avoid an old man who was crossing the road in the other direction. He saw the van zooming towards him out the corner of his eye and sprinted for the cover of the colonnaded shops on the other side of the square.
‘Mind the old man,’ yelled Mario.
‘What?’ said Robert. ‘Speak up.’
The Plutznick van missed Himmelfahrt by inches, which he was aware of, and caught Gustav Stikuta a glancing blow, which he was unaware of. As Himmelfahrt ran round the corner into Wilhelmstrasse, heading for the warmth of the Börse pub, the van skidded on the wet road, throwing furniture and drugs all over the place in the back.
With Mario screaming abuse at him, saying he had killed the old man, Robert sleepily righted the van, skidded another circuit round the square and left Arsenalplatz at the Schillerstrasse end, heading for home.
Gustav Stikuta, his leg broken, was croaking ‘Help, help!’ as he lay on the wet street, stretching for his overnight case and umbrella in case somebody stole them.
Siegfried Gruber had been waiting outside the language school to resume tailing Mark Hill. He had not expected his quarry half an hour before the usual time, so Hill’s emergence on the run caught him out. He had seen Hill avoid the van, seen the van hit an old man and radioed for an ambulance. Then he radioed BND headquarters at Pullach on a secure frequency. Gruber had no doubt the van had been driven at Mark Hill deliberately. The old man was an innocent victim of the failed murder attempt. The two men in the van, presumably East German SSD or Russians, had tried to kill a British spy on West German soil. This was very serious indeed. Gruber was now requesting a full BND back-up team.
‘No,’ he mouthed into the radio. ‘Unfortunately, I did not get the number of the van.’
*
Sipping at a Halbe in the Börse, telling the landlord, Karl Pfotenhauer, how good his beer was before leaving a huge tip, Himmelfahrt was simultaneously scribbling down a lesson plan for the next time he taught Dr Brenner. It was the first lesson he had ever planned.
*
Gustav Stikuta, clutching his broken umbrella and his battered overnight case, was being taken by ambulance to the hospital in Erlachhofstrasse.
35
‘What the hell happened to you?’ an amazed Himmelfahrt burst out at John de Launay, as he sat down in an ancient armchair in John’s flat.
Anna Schweinle’s furious attack on John had left him with a black eye, a bruised cheek and a cut lip. He also had a limp — Anna had kicked his right patella back so hard with her heel that his knee ligaments were damaged. Furthermore, she had thrown his SS uniform out the window, got dressed, gone downstairs and wiped her feet on it.
‘I fell over crossing the street,’ said John.
‘Not surprised, mate,’ sympathised Himmelfahrt, warmly. ‘Some nutter was driving a van round Arse-n’l Platz like it was Brands bloody Hatch the other night. I only just got out the way in time. You don’t get that in Chingford.’
The two expatriates exchanged a few patriotic anecdotes in favour of British driving standards.
‘When are you going to play me “Solly’s Death: It’s a Gas”?’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘You promised,’ he added, childishly.
John looked at him as quizzically as it was possible to look with only one eye working.
‘I don’t think I’ll be playing you that,’ he said, quietly. ‘Do you?’
Himmelfahrt looked him in the eye (the functioning one). There was silence in the room. ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘Know that you are a Jew? Yes, I do. Marcus Himmelfahrt.’
‘Naomi told you?’
‘Yes.’
Himmelfahrt wished Naomi had said something to him about telling John. But never mind. He loved her so much that a peccadillo like that didn’t matter. Anyway, this situation they were in was upsetting her. The other day she had told him she intended to keep her old wedding ring on, even when they were back in England. It had worried him for a day or so, then he bounced back. He loved her. She could wear her old wedding dress in England as well as the bloody ring if she wanted. Do the bloody washing up in it. As long as she was there, with him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ John sounded as close to anger as Himmelfahrt had ever heard him.
Himmelfahrt was anxious, desperate, not to lose his friendship. ‘John, look, I … There were several times when I was going to but … I dunno. I was known as Mark Hill at the school and … Oh, I dunno. I wanted to work things out. Look, it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’
John thought for a moment. He smiled, as widely as possible with one cheek bruised so badly he looked like he’d swallowed a golfball.
‘No, it doesn’t make any difference,’ he said, generously. ‘When we take power and the nose callipers come out, it will be acceptable to know someone in authority who can say, “This one is all right.”’
Himmelfahrt grinned. ‘Thanks John,’ he said, accepting his protection in a future Nazi state in the spirit it was offered.
Over a microscopic evening meal of home-made taramasalata, Himmelfahrt and John got drunk. Himmelfahrt’s worries about Hartmut hitting Naomi, buried deep when he was with her, surfaced with John, the expert confidant. Himmelfahrt was close to tears.
‘I think he’s knocking her about. I can’t stand it, John. I can’t stand the thought of it. If he hurts her I’m going over there. I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him with my bare hands.’
Himmelfahrt took a swig of beer. He wrongly assumed John had at least an inkling about him and Naomi. John, for his part, was surprised at the force of Himmelfahrt’s concern for their colleague, but not at the concern itself. They both thought the world of Naomi, after all.
‘Hartmut is being a bit rough with her, I’m afraid.’ John said. ‘Naomi indicated that much to me. I don’t see what we can do. But if it gets any worse …’
Himmelfahrt remembered that it wouldn’t get any worse because they were leaving.
‘Oh, Naomi wants to talk to you,’ he said, suddenly remembering.
John looked surprised, but assumed it was about Hartmut and the rough stuff. But it wasn’t. In her distress at deceiving her husband, which went against her straightforward nature, Naomi needed someone to open her heart to. Himmelfahrt did not mind in the slightest that that someone was John, not him.
‘Righty-ho,’ John said. ‘Are we all going out somewhere tomorrow then, or what?’
‘No, this stuff’s a bit private. Can we come here, do you think?’
‘Of course you can. You’re very welcome. I’ll make you a meal, if you like.’
‘No, no!’ said Himmelfahrt, hastily. ‘We’ll come over after dinner, say half nine?’
*
The next evening, Himmelfahrt and Naomi arrived at John’s after a fortifying heavy meal at the Deutsches Haus. Naomi sat in an armchair in a short, straight, navy blue skirt and a pink ribbed pullover with short sleeves. Himmelfahrt thought happily how lovely her legs were — coupled with another patriotic thought that a lot of British women had good legs. He looked up her skirt as he sat opposite her.
She was in tears. ‘I’ve made a mess of my life,’ she said.
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Himmelfahrt, gently. ‘There are wonderful times ahead for us.’
John’s working eye opened with surprise. ‘Am I to understand …? Are you two …?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said John, crossly. He had never asked for oracle status, but he
didn’t want to look like a chump either. ‘Well well,’ he continued, still annoyed. He nodded at Himmelfahrt. ‘Herr Plutznick, is it? Or is it Herr Heer?’
The ladykiller sighed. ‘We’re just going to scoot off, John,’ Himmelfahrt said, quietly. ‘We didn’t want to leave without telling you. We’re going back to England.’
During this announcement Himmelfahrt had abandoned looking up Naomi’s skirt in favour of perching on the edge of her armchair and putting his arm round her, protectively. This tilted the chair dangerously, nearly landing them both on the floor. Naomi squealed. Himmelfahrt jumped up and resumed his original position and activity.
He was thinking how exciting Naomi was naked. Why didn’t she realise how lovely she was? She had perfect, very full breasts and exquisite legs. Some women, he had told her with his new-found depth of experience, were more attractive dressed and some more attractive naked. No doubt which group Naomi came into. He never told her this, but she was more arousing naked than Margarethe Heer had been.
Naomi just wanted Himmelfahrt to keep on talking about them leaving together. She wouldn’t really believe it until she saw the tickets for home. The tickets had become a proof for her; the litmus of his love. That was why she, who had never taken as much as a free meal from a man, wanted him to pay for the magic tickets. Just get them, just buy the tickets. She had never longed for anything so much; desired it beyond hope.
‘Excuse me,’ said John. ‘I’m still adjusting to all this. I don’t want to be a spoil-sport or anything, but while you’re getting divorced,’ he nodded at Naomi, ‘what are you two actually going to live on?’
Naomi was still tearful, wobbly, vulnerable at this huge crossroads in her life. ‘I don’t care. I’ll live on bread and milk,’ she sobbed.
Himmelfahrt stopped looking up her skirt, went across to her and this time managed to hug her without half tipping her on the floor. They kissed. ‘I love you,’ he said.
Sobbingly, wetly, she said she loved him, too. John was English with embarrassment.
‘I don’t care what we live on. You can have anything you want,’ Himmelfahrt said to Naomi, so tenderly his voice broke. ‘I’ll get it somehow.’
‘I want a collie,’ said Naomi.
‘Done,’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘One collie. Lassie? I’ve had her.’
‘And what about the Tommy LP? You keep saying you’ve got it at home.’
‘No problem. One Tommy LP. Anything else? You want kids?’
Naomi started crying again. ‘Of course I want kids! All women want kids.’
‘No problem. I want them too. We can have a go now if you like.’
‘No, you can’t!’ said John. ‘Let’s keep it clean, please.’
Naomi starting laughing without stopping crying.
‘So when is this unheralded departure from Sprachschule Stikuta, then?’ said John.
‘Next week,’ said Himmelfahrt.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the tickets.
‘Oh Marcus!’ Naomi threw her arms round him, hugging him hard round the neck, sobbing uncontrollably.
John smiled. ‘Let’s have a look at them,’ he said. ‘Make sure you haven’t bought them for Moscow, or anything.’ John inspected the tickets, which is more than Himmelfahrt had done in the travel agency. ‘Yup,’ said John. ‘Two train and boat tickets for Dover. Both one way. They look fine to me.’
‘They look fine to me, too,’ wept Naomi, seizing them, crying even more. ‘They look marvellous to me. Oh, you wonderful man!’ She hugged Himmelfahrt again.
John then spoke to Naomi, entirely without thinking, straight out of his past. ‘You’ll be spending the rest of your life with a sheeny then,’ he said to Naomi. ‘Good luck to you.’
Naomi gasped. ‘What does that word …?’
‘Oh,’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘It’s an insulting word for a Jew.’ And he leaped across the room and smashed his fist into John’s face.
Himmelfahrt had not hit anyone since a playground fight when he was seven (he lost). But by a fluke he connected with all his weight behind a punch on the one feature that Anna Schweinle had left undamaged, John’s bulbous and really rather large nose. Himmelfahrt heard the crack as the bone broke even before John went over backwards in his chair, crashing to the floor, pouring blood.
‘What did you say sheeny meant?’ asked Naomi, still tearfully shaky and clutching the tickets to her breast, past caring about anything else.
‘Oh never mind,’ said Himmelfahrt. ‘Ow! My hand hurts. I suppose I’d better call an ambulance for John. Wonder where the nearest telephone is?’
*
The ambulance came quickly and took John to the hospital in Erlachhofstrasse, where he spent the night (unknown to them both) in the next room to Gustav Stikuta.. But before the ambulance left, as John was carried out on a stretcher, Gruber desperately checked who was being taken away. For one terrible moment he thought the East Germans had killed Mark Hill.
36
The affront to Plutznick pride, the little squirt, had evaded the attempt to run him over with the furniture van. So another planning meeting had been called. Mainhardt Plutznick had said he ‘couldn’t give a toss’ and was playing his Jethro Tull LP at full volume, driving the avenging knights of Plutznick honour, Mario and Robert, into the girls’ room to talk.
Elvira Plutznick was out anyway. She was at the Youth House — a house the Local Council had bought in Robert-Franck Allee and put at the disposal of young people. The oldest sister, Ursula Plutznick, was unconscious on the door. So the field was clear for the avenging knights.
This time, however, they faced the opposite problem to last time. This time it was Mario who was on downers, Nembutal in syrup form swigged from the bottle, while Robert was tripping on an LSD tab. Unusually, then, it was Robert who took the lead in the discussion.
He suggested abandoning the vehicle for the actual assault. There were two reasons for this. First, the Plutznick furniture van was his pride and joy. He had even been known to work on the engine, though when he lay under the van he usually fell asleep. Hitting the old man with the van had already put a dent in the beloved vehicle, and Robert did not want any more damage. Secondly, as the LSD tab hit home, Robert could almost hear the colours and taste the sound of what would be the most beautiful trip in the world, man. Kicking the shit out of the man who had cuckolded his brother. A close-quarter beating, that was Robert’s aim. Fists.
Robert took an apparently wandering Mario by the arm. The younger brother grabbed at his bottle of Nembutal and knocked Elvira’s teddy bear over. Robert threw it until it flew over the moon. The three of them laughed, the teddy bear the most. Then the brothers meandered downstairs into the cold night air and got the van started at the third or fourth pull. They drove to Arsenalplatz again.
Again, they parked opposite the school. This time there was no rain. The stars were so near that Robert could taste them (they tasted of Quark, a kind of sour yoghurt he had always hated). Robert’s long face distorted in disgust at the taste of the stars.
They had not really planned what they would do if the squirt who had dishonoured the Plutznicks came out with someone else. Beat them both up, beat them all up? And if he came out with Naomi? Dunno. There is a limit to contingency planning.
But as it happened, the slight figure with long hair and glasses emerged on his own. There he was! What luck! Robert shook Mario awake, took the Nembutal bottle out of his hand and led the way across the road.
It really was all going their way. Despite the dear night and lack of rain there were no passers-by. But to their horrified amazement, someone else got there first. A well-built young man in jeans and a zip-up jacket jumped their intended victim from behind, dragged him into the doorway of a chemist and repeatedly hit him in the face.
‘Oy,’ yelled Robert indignantly. ‘Leave him alone. He’s ours.’
To Robert’s gratification, and relief — he really was quite a big bloke and looked as if he co
uld handle himself, judging by those punches — the assailant ran off. The victim staggered to his feet, bleeding, seeing succour in the shape of the two men rushing toward him.
Wrong. They both laid into him, the excitement of it waking Mario up. There was a single scream as the youth went down for the second time and a girly ‘Nein! Nein! Bitte! Hör auf!’ before Robert’s fist in his mouth silenced any further protest.
When they finished with their fists, the brothers waded in with their boots, kicking the supine, silent body. Robert got blood on his new shirt and Mario cut his hand on the buckle of the little bastard’s mac, but apart from that it went very well.
When they drove past in the van on the way home, the little squirt was still lying unmoving in the doorway of the chemist’s shop.
*
Officers Gerhard Söderle and Andreas Lübke had been detailed to form part of a roadblock. In early December 1971, the Baader-Meinhof gang pulled off a bank robbery in greater Ludwigsburg, in Marbach. The intelligence was that more raids were planned, to finance the gang’s political aims. The Marbach job had been well executed. There was a description circulated of a new gang member; dark-haired, female, attractive. The other gang members had used the name Dorothea, but it was not known who she was.
Things were not going well for either Söderle’s or Lübke’s careers. Gerhard Söderle had been stunned by Gisella Herrold’s betrayal, and the way he discovered it — her brazen confession as she stood naked before him. He had complained to the language school owner about Herr Hill, but that had not helped. His feelings of anger and humiliation were getting worse, not better. So he had started looking out for Mark Hill, keeping watch on the language school in the evenings, to give him one in the face.
It had been satisfying punching him in his weasly mouth, although he felt guilty about breaking the law. It had been a big risk, too. He still wasn’t sure if those two men who ran to Hill’s rescue had seen him or could identify him. He was finished, of course, if they could.
As for Söderle’s partner, Andreas Lübke: like the universe, Officer Lübke was expanding infinitely. He was an excellent policeman but lack of recognition and reward had turned him inward onto his main vice: food. He ate, he snacked, he ate again. Especially cream cakes. He had received first an oral warning about his weight, then a written one. Any further increase in the policeman’s girth and he was out. This morning, for the first time, Lübke could not get the trousers of his uniform done up. They were held in position by a safety pin. He had waddled out of his one-room flat at the police house in Bebenhauser Strasse in shame.
