I gave myself a mental kick and dragged myself to the communal bathroom. I shaved and washed and scoffed a life-giving breakfast in the mess. By nine o’clock I was standing outside, hope set on a low flame, waiting for Vic. I’d met him last night and asked for his help. It was a tall order.
By nine-thirty I was thinking of abandoning my vigil when I heard a great toot. Coming towards me was a massive German staff car, the three-pointed star on its radiator glowing with power. All it lacked was a brace of swastikas fluttering from the bumpers. Vic sat at the wheel, waving with one hand, steering and smoking with the other.
“Will this do?” he asked innocently as he drew up and wound down the window.
“I asked for a set of wheels, Vic, not the Kaiser’s personal runabout. Where the hell did you get this?”
He rubbed his nose. “Contacts. It was liberated from the garage of a big cheese in the ritzy part of town. Some say it was Goebbels’ personal transport, or his bit on the side.”
“It’s – how can I put this – a wee bit conspicuous. That’s all.”
He looked hurt. “Don’t you want it then?”
I suddenly saw the humour in all this. “Course I want it. Vic, you’re a bloody hero. Now show me how to drive this heap of tin. I don’t want to demolish the Brandenburg Gate. Not after all it’s been through.”
God knows how he found the petrol, far less the car itself. But driving this luxurious tank made me feel much better. It certainly drew glances. I left him, mid-morning, with his admonition not to bend the bleeding car, if you please, Danny-boy ringing in my ears. I lied when I told him what I was up to – impressing a bint, Vic, old pal – or he might not have handed over the keys so easily.
As I sailed through Checkpoint Charlie – trust the Army to come up with a truly forgettable name – I got saluted by the two Red Army soldiers. I drove down the Holzmarktstrasse and parked along from the little café where Eve and I had watched the District Controller come and go. With plenty of Russian soldiers wandering about it should be safe from petty thieves, unless they wore officer tabs.
I settled down with a pot of tea and the four-page German newspaper that claimed to be the Neu Berliner Zeitung. I was conscious of curious eyes from the grosse frau in charge of the café and some of her customers, but when I challenged them by returning their glances they went back to their soft susurrations of local gossip.
Lunchtime dragged on, and I was beginning to think nothing would happen. Which is when it did. Across the street there was a flurry of movement. Soldiers slapped their rifles in salute, and out stepped Heinrich Mulder. He glanced up and down the street and walked quickly off in the direction of his apartment. I paid my bill and left, coughed the big car into life and eased its nose into the street just as Mulder disappeared round the corner. I double-declutched, found second, and felt the V12 engine pull the car up to walking speed. At the turning I stopped so that I could see down the street. Mulder had already vanished. I left the engine running but rolled the window down so I could hear any ructions.
At first there was nothing to disturb the hot, quiet day: just a pair of old women shambling down the road with string bags distended by some nameless bloody parcels – leg of dog? fillet of cat? There were two cars parked – neither of the stature of mine – one to the left near the flats, the other on the far side. Much of the street was intact, with only the odd toothless gap. Suddenly a shadow flitted from a gutted façade. A figure darted across the street towards the flats. Another, larger, broke from the same cover and moved more slowly, resolutely in her wake. Eve, then Gideon. I wondered how they would do this. They didn’t know which flat Mulder used, nor could they easily get through the communal front door.
The pair of them skulked in the entrance porch. They peered up and down the road, but saw nothing suspicious in a big parked Merc at the end of the street with a driver conspicuously reading a paper. I shifted the paper, in time to see Gideon take a couple of steps into the street, turn round and run back into the porch. A crash told me he’d hit the door and the door, presumably, had lost. He didn’t come out. Eve looked round again and disappeared through the porch. They were in. But they still had to find the right flat. I guessed their approach would be as subtle as their door entry technique.
The seconds dragged into minutes. How long did it take to knock on ten doors? I caught a movement in my mirror; a troop of soldiers – six, no eight – was collecting outside the District Controller’s office. An officer barked orders. They snapped to attention, then were dismissed. Four stayed behind and began to take up duty positions. The other four, their shift over, walked smartly off in my direction and broke ranks. They slung their weapons casually over their shoulders and pulled out fags. It was a scene echoed in every army on earth. The changing of the guard.
They were ten yards from the corner of the Controller’s street when the sound of the first shots reached me.
It was though they’d been electrocuted. The fags went flying and the rifles came round into their hands. They sank to their knees, waiting to see who was firing at them. There was a further shot, then cries from round the corner. The four men dashed forward and peered round. Two took up positions, one kneeling, the other standing above him, weapons to their shoulders. The other two ran for the furthest side of the street and took up the same stance. When Eve and her wild man ran out with smoking guns in hand they’d be shot down like rabbits. The cries had turned to good old-fashioned screams now, and were clearly coming from the flats.
Sure enough, like a bad gangster movie, Eve ran on to the pavement with a pistol in her hand. She turned back to wait for Gideon just as one of the soldiers shouted in Russian at her. Whatever the words, it was clear he wanted her to stop, disarm and put her hands above her pretty head or they would blow it off. Before she could comply, the big man lumbered out. She screamed at him and they both dived for the cover of the parked car. That was enough for the squaddies who’d lost a number of their mates fighting their way into Berlin. They let rip with a first round which pinned down Eve and Gideon. In case the soldiers needed any more convincing, a big arm broke cover and sent a couple of bullets whizzing towards them. The firing squad opened up.
Another figure suddenly took centre stage. A young man ran out, waving his fists and screaming for help. If he wanted to die his timing was perfect. He was right in the crossfire and took at least two bullets before pitching into the gutter and lying there, twitching and groaning.
A smart guy with a lust for life and a borrowed car of some distinction would have eased said car into gear and headed for the quiet side of town. Maybe the country. Check out the lake. Do some fishing. A smart guy.
I dropped the clutch, put it into first, revved the engine and let the gears bite. The big nose shot up and we lurched away. I spun the wheel even as I crashed into second. By the time I was passing the first open-mouthed soldier I was doing over twenty. By the time I was level with the man rolling in his own blood I was at thirty. I hit the brakes next to the parked car and squealed to a halt. I shouted out the window.
“Get your stupid backsides over here!”
Two astonished faces peered over the bonnet of the parked car. They saw who it was and ducked down again. I looked in my mirror. The four soldiers were moving forward, firing from the shoulder as they came. The first bullets punched into the boot with a loud thunk. I ducked just as a bullet smashed the rear screen. Eve and Gideon appeared in front of me and darted to either side of the car. The rear doors opened backwards and gave cover. Eve got hers open and dived in. Gideon didn’t. He took position on the running board, with one big hand holding on through the window. He began shooting at our pursuers. I slammed into gear, hit the accelerator and stalled the damn thing.
I glanced back. The soldiers were flat on the ground. One of them was curled up clutching his belly. The others were getting their shots in. I prayed I hadn’t flooded the carb. I switched off, then on again, pressed the starter. It stuttered and rumbled in prote
st, so I tried again, foot well clear of the accelerator. The engine coughed, then roared and gave a great belch of smoke from its exhaust. I found first gear, worked the pedals and shot off, with bullets chasing us. The madman on my running board continued firing and cursing at them and their ancestors while clinging on for dear life. I hurled us round the corner, stopped and screamed,
“Get in, you big bastard!”
The big bastard duly obliged and I began to head north, round the Red sector back towards either the American or British.
“You’ve been hit! Oh god, Gideon, you’ve been hit!”
Not a word of thanks, just concern for her partner in crime. I looked in the mirror. Gideon was holding his shoulder. Blood was oozing through his fingers. His face was slate grey.
“Where can we go? Is there a safe house? Did you have a plan?” I shouted.
“Don’t shout at me!” she shouted.
“Why the hell fire shouldn’t I?” I yelled as the adrenalin washed through me. “You’re a bloody madwoman! That’s what you are. And I’m even dafter!”
We glared at each other in the mirror for a long few seconds. She sat back. I heard a rip and saw she’d torn off a bit of blouse. She stuffed it on to the big man’s wound. He groaned.
“We didn’t plan this.”
“You mean you didn’t have an exit plan?”
She glowered at me. “Can you get us to the French sector?”
“I can if all the checkpoint guards are blind drunk. You look like a pair of assassins. And there might a be a wee problem explaining bullet holes, a smashed window, and a man bleeding to death in the back seat.”
“He’s not dying!”
We sped on, aware that the soldiers would have run back to the Controller’s office. They would be able to radio or phone ahead. They might already be waiting for us.
“Did you get him?” I asked and looked for her eyes. She wouldn’t oblige.
“Yes.”
“Feel better?”
“Shut up. Just shut up!”
“Who was the screamer?”
“He was with Mulder. His little friend. A cosy little love nest.”
There was a groan from Gideon. “Filth,” he managed before passing out.
We were on the Unter den Linden now, hammering towards the Gate. I looked ahead and could see a flurry of activity at the Russian checkpoint. They were moving a jeep across the exit. Two groups of soldiers were setting themselves up either side to man the gaps. I gunned the pedal and felt the great engine roar. Its bonnet rose up like a ship meeting a big wave, then settled down as the springs rebalanced.
We were a hundred yards away and I could see the officer shouting out commands. The soldiers settled into firing positions, aiming straight at us.
“Get down!” I shouted to the back seat. I lowered my own head so I was peering though the rim of the wooden steering wheel.
The officer shouted again. Some men brought their guns up. Some began to get to their feet and move to the side. The officer screamed at them and suddenly bullets were cracking towards us. The screen smashed and metal pinged on metal. There was a big bang and an awful grinding noise. The fan had taken a hit.
I was twenty yards away. I swung the nose towards the smaller of the two groups, the one furthest from the shouting officer. They saw me and leapt away like salmon heading to their spawning pool. I clipped the rear end of the jeep sending the two soldiers on it flying. Our momentum lifted the jeep like a cardboard box and flung it against the great slabs of the Brandenburg Gate. We tore through the arch ripping off the remaining wing mirror as we went.
The Americans weren’t lined up in force but had been attracted by the sounds of shooting. I wasn’t about to run down the guys who saved me at Dachau so I swerved and made a screeching detour round the sentry box. The GIs raised their rifles but didn’t open up. Then they realised bullets were coming their way from the Soviet lines. They dived for cover and let fly at their former allies.
“We’ve just started World War bloody Three! I hope you’re happy now!” I shouted at Eve through the rushing wind that tore over the bonnet and through the smashed windscreen. I adjusted the mirror to see her. She was staring ahead, silent. Gideon was on his side in her arms. He looked very dead.
The Merc sounded like a tractor and looked like a target in a shooting gallery. I hauled the wheel round and tore down narrower streets but even here there were British and French troops on patrol or manoeuvres. We were as discreet as a stripper in a pulpit. It was only a matter of time before we were stopped – and I didn’t have a story that even started to make sense. The word would also be getting around: top level shouting matches between Red officials and their western counterparts.
“Is he dead? Is Gideon dead?”
She barely raised her gaze. I slowed, turned down a blind alley and did a U-turn so we were facing back out, and stopped. I leaned over and felt Gideon’s neck for a pulse. There was a faint beat. At my touch the big man groaned and stirred. His eyes flickered, then sprang open. They were clouded with pain.
“Where – are – we?” he managed.
“Oh, Gideon! Gideon, you’re going to make it!” Eve fingered his face. I didn’t disillusion her. This man was at the end of his days.
“Where…?”
I answered, “Through the Brandenburg. The British zone. Not far from the French sector. They’re after us.”
“Get me up,” he said to me. “You, get out and help me into your seat.”
I guessed what he planned. “Gideon, take it easy. We’ll get you help.”
“Now! Do it!” he demanded with all his remaining strength.
I got out and looked at the car. Vic would kill me. Shattered screens, bullet holes in the big fenders and mudguards, and the engine and boot shot to pieces. I hauled open Gideon’s door and slid my arm under his shoulder; with Eve pushing we got him out and on to his feet. He was swaying, and I doubted I could hold him for long. Now I saw the blood pouring down his chest. We both looked at his feet; already there was a pool of red. His shoes were filled and his trousers soaked.
Gideon looked at me. He smiled. “Get me in.”
By this time Eve had worked her way round to our side. “What are you doing? Gideon, don’t do this. We can get help.”
I manoeuvred him next to the driving seat and he sank down with a great sigh and moan.
“Help me.”
I kneeled and pushed his legs and feet into the foot well.
Eve was weeping. Gideon said something to her and she jerked up. The language. Yiddish. All I got was, The story. Tell the story… I couldn’t make out Eve’s response, but it sounded like a denial. She didn’t want to do whatever he said. Then he silenced her with another few words, guttural and hacking like a bad cough. She stopped and nodded. Again I heard the words, “Tell the story…” She said yes. She reached inside his jacket and fumbled around. She pulled out something and held it up to me: a set of keys.
He turned to me. “Give – me – the – gun.”
I looked in the back seat. I saw his big Mauser pistol and drew it out. It had three shots left. I pulled out my own Luger. It had a full chamber of six. I gave him the Mauser in his right hand and laid the Luger across his lap. When the first was empty he could reach easily for the second. Eve was sobbing again and softly saying no, no, no. Gideon murmured to her. She nodded and leaned over and kissed his brow.
“Start me up,” he said.
“Use third. Don’t change.” He nodded.
I reached across and pressed the magneto. I waited a second or two and then pressed the starter. The big engine roared and the broken fan screamed. I shut the doors and Gideon crashed the car into third gear. The nose tensed and he released the handbrake. The Merc juddered off towards the main road, kangarooing and near to stalling. He didn’t wait to see if any cars were coming, just shot out, hauled the nose round and pointed back the way we’d come.
We ran to the corner just as he got going. The car loo
ked a mess and sounded worse. Gideon waved his gun at us. I caught the words, “Next year in Israel!” and he shot off down the street just as a jeep and half-truck hurtled towards him filled with troops.
Gideon fired at them and the jeep swerved and nearly flipped. He sped past them with his horn blasting. The jeep and the truck turned and began the chase back towards the Russian lines. We heard more firing, much more than from one hand gun. Klaxons went off all round the city centre. It was like an air raid.
We lost sight of Gideon’s car as he made the turn towards the Gate and launched himself along the cobbles. From a long way off we heard the sound of gunfire, then a great metallic bang. A little later we saw smoke appearing over the buildings.
“Eve, let’s go. We have one chance.”
She jolted as if I’d struck her. “It doesn’t matter. Go without me. I don’t care.”
I took her by the arm.
“Let me go.”
“You may not care if you live or die, but I bloody do! I need you to show me the safe house. Come on!”
At last she seemed to be seeing me.
“He’s dead. He gave you this chance, Eve. Tell the story.”
She swayed. I steadied her. There was blood down her side.
“Are you..?”
She shook her head. I grabbed her under one arm. We tottered down the main street like a pair of Glasgow drunks and began heading away from the Gate. I heard sirens behind us. The chase would be on soon enough.
NINETEEN
I held her close as we walked, partly because she needed the support, partly because I did, and mainly to cover the crimson smears down her frock. By now I reckoned we were well into the French sector, north of the British zone. Occasionally a jeep or a truck klaxoned past, racing towards the Gate. This was a four-nation rumpus.
The Unquiet Heart Page 17
