The Unquiet Heart

by Gordon, Ferris,

  We came to a halt outside a block of damaged flats down a side street. Eve was still clutching the keys. For a few fruitless turns she couldn’t open the hall door. At last we tumbled through. A man was standing in the corridor waiting to see who was trying to break in. From some hidden reserves, Eve flashed him a smile and turned to me with a liebchen and a patting of my cheek. I tried to look suitably entranced. She waved her keys at the old man. He shrugged; another whore, a city of whores. He closed his door and we slid into the flat.

  It was in darkness. The curtains were drawn and the room smelled of old clothes and old food. There was a sink in one corner, a toilet in the hall, a tiny bedroom through a door. Eve didn’t collapse. She tore off her dress and stood by the sink in her brassiere and knickers. Her slim body was streaked with dust and blood, and bruises were appearing down her arm and leg. The old scar on her thigh was livid. She was shaking from head to toe. It wasn’t cold in here.

  She waited for the rust-brown water to run clear, then thrust her arm under it and cleaned it best she could. Then she lifted her leg and washed it too. She plunged her dress under the tap and soaked and massaged it until the water ran red.

  I looked in the bedroom and came back with a sheet to drape over her. She flinched but I gripped her shoulders till the shaking subsided a little. I began to rub her body dry. She let me do it. I found a blanket and wrapped it round her. The shakes seemed to be getting worse and I moved her over to the couch and made her lie down. She lay trembling as though she had the flu, and stared at nothing.

  I tried to be useful. I dug into the one cupboard and found a tin pan, some coffee essence and a can of milk. I boiled water on the one hot plate and made her coffee. She didn’t drink it.

  A long while later as the evening drew in, she fell asleep. I lay beside her on the thin rug and tried to join her. I couldn’t. My brain was racing, trying to figure out how to get us out of this mess. Nothing came to mind.

  It was dark when she stirred. This time she accepted a hot drink. I found sugar too and she supped it like nectar. We kept the light off for no other reason, I suspect, than we didn’t want to see each other’s faces. I checked her dress. Though the room was warm it was still damp. By morning it would be creased but wearable – Berlin wasn’t currently the capital of high fashion. I gave her a cigarette. It was time to talk.

  “Did you have any plans after…?” I meant after the killing.

  She understood and shook her head.

  “A suicide mission?”

  She shrugged under her blanket. I was getting fed up with this.

  “OK, Eve, do you feel happier now you’ve killed a man?”

  Even in the gloom I could see her eyes glistening with tears. “If you must know, I didn’t. I was the feint. I just knocked on every door until we found him. Gideon wouldn’t let me do it.”

  Relief – of sorts – washed through me. “So it was Gideon?”

  “What does it matter? I went there to do it. I set him up. I might as well have pulled the trigger.”

  “Did anyone see you? The boyfriend, did he see you? Did he see who did it to Mulder?”

  “I suppose so. He answered the door. I told him I was looking for Herr Mulder. I had a message from him from the office. When we heard Mulder call out from inside, Gideon appeared. He shoved the boy out of the way. Mulder was in bed. He tried to hide under the sheets when he saw Gideon with the gun. Then he saw me. He knew me, I think. I hope so. I aimed the gun at him but I couldn’t fire. He smiled when he saw that. But he stopped when Gideon blasted him. Then the boy was screaming and throwing fits, so we ran. The rest you know.”

  I didn’t know how this would play out. But Eve could still be hanged as an accessory – if anyone missed Mulder enough to care.

  “What was the story Gideon wanted you to tell?”

  “Don’t tell me you learned Yiddish too? You’re beginning to make Dachau sound like a Jewish finishing school.”

  “It nearly finished me.” It almost made her smile, so I went on.

  “I only picked up a smattering of words, but I knew what language he was speaking. All I got was ‘tell the story’. What did he mean? Can I help?”

  Her eyes were soft in the gloaming. She did smile this time. She shook her head. “You’ve helped beyond words, Daniel McRae. Beyond words. I don’t know why. I don’t deserve it. I haven’t been very kind to you. But thank you for what you did today.”

  “It was… interesting,” I managed.

  “This isn’t your fight. It’s time you left it to us.”

  “Us?”

  “The people who want a bit of land to call their own. Where we won’t get marched off to die in camps. Is that so much to ask?”

  “No. It’s not.” I shook my head. “What was the story?”

  She pulled her knees up against her chest and pulled at her cigarette. It glowed red in the dusk. I settled down on the carpet. She began.

  “Everything I told you was true. Mulder and my parents, and working for the British.”

  “But…?” I asked.

  “No buts. All true. But there was more to the Jewish contacts. When they found out who I was and what I did – the reporting side – they wanted me to join their group. Irgun. The Irgun Svai Leumi. Part of the Jewish Resistance Movement.”

  “How could you join that gang?! They murder our boys! A month ago they blew up all the bridges in Palestine!”

  “And what did the British do?! Arrested three thousand Jews and put them in a concentration camp! Where did you learn that trick?!”

  “They were terrorists!”

  “As much as the SOE in France!”

  “Oh come on. We were fighting for our lives against the Nazis.” Even as I said it I realised how stupid that sounded from her perspective.

  She gave me a look and went on. “We are reclaiming our land, Danny. Eretz Israel. The land of Israel. My father used to finish the Shabbath by saying Next year in Israel. For a thousand years Jews all over the world have been reminding themselves of the land they left. Next year in Israel. This is the year.”

  I had nothing to put on the scales on the other side. The Scots too have had their Diaspora. The Clearances. And I know from letters to my mother from her sister in Canada that the further away they travel, the more Scottish they get. They talk wistfully of returning to a mystical land they’ve never seen. They do everything in their power to make themselves stand out from their neighbours. Tartan in Calcutta and Burns Nights in Sydney. Bagpipes in Argentina and highland games on the prairie. Wailing Auld Lang Syne at new year. But despite these provocations, no one tries to massacre us. Not even the English. How could I argue with this woman?

  “They wanted me to become their information officer. Propaganda if you like. God knows the Jews need some good press. They wanted me to spread the word. To use my contacts and my position to give their side of events. All we hear is the British version.”

  “We’re only just over the war. What do you expect?”

  “Justice? Isn’t that what you fought for? I thought that was why I was on your side. You seem to have a short memory.”

  “We have a job to do in Palestine.”

  “The British Protectorate,” she sneered. “But it’s only the Arabs you protect.”

  “Not always. Balfour promised you your own place. The war changed everything.”

  “Not the war. Oil. You need oil. The Arabs have it.”

  She had a point. I changed my angle.

  “What exactly were you expected to do?”

  “Tell the story. Whenever something happened that involved the Jews, I was to give their side. Hell, even if I just told the truth – like a reporter should – it would make a change. You have no idea how biased it all is.”

  “Have you done anything yet?”

  “No. But Gideon said… never mind.”

  “There’s something coming up?”

  “Maybe.”

  I sensed it was useless to press her. Instead
I asked, “Why would Cassells lie to me about you?”

  “About working for the British? Maybe he wasn’t told. Secrets within secrets. Maybe he felt silly, losing an agent.”

  “Then why did he send me after you?”

  She thought for a while. “Berlin is a mess. The chances of a complete stranger finding me are nil. You knew me, knew how I’d think.”

  “I thought I did.”

  She had the grace to look sheepish.

  We were silent for a while. I had one more question that I dreaded asking.

  “Why pick me, Eve? Why did you get me involved? It wasn’t chance, was it?”

  “Leave it, Danny. Just leave it.”

  “After all this? I can’t. You owe me this.”

  We stared at each other. Something passed over her face. She took a deep breath.

  “I told you, MI5 ordered me to drop my Mulder inquiry. I should have pretended to let go. I didn’t.” She smiled ruefully.

  “So they began tailing you?”

  “Someone was. They wanted to stop me. And if I disappeared they would know where I’d gone. They might even have warned Mulder. God knows why. I needed to get them off my trail. Make them think I’d been kidnapped. Maybe killed.”

  “You set it up to look like Gambatti. You’d targeted him long before you met me. You just needed a sucker to get you closer.” I couldn’t help the accusation in my voice.

  “I needed your help.”

  “Why my help? Why me, Eve?”

  She ran her hands over her face. “You were on the front pages. You were in the right business. You could get me access to the underworld. And…”

  “And?”

  “You’d probably spot the watchers.”

  I thought for a long minute. “So that when you vanished I’d be able to back up the kidnap story?”

  She nodded. “More or less.”

  “I don’t get it. The moment I began to tell you about the watchers you clammed up. You denied it. You ditched me, Eve, because of them!”

  By the moonlight seeping through the curtains I could see the glitter trickling down her cheeks. She rubbed the blanket at her eyes.

  “You’d just saved me from two of Gambatti’s hard men. Gunmen. You didn’t think. Just acted. A big daft hero.”

  “So?”

  “If that’s how you were going to react… If I was in worse trouble… you were going to put your life at risk.”

  I shrugged. “And?”

  “I hadn’t expected… it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “What?” I asked softly.

  Her voice was at a whisper. “That I’d fall in love. I didn’t want you dead.”

  I got up and sat beside her on the couch. I put my arms round her and held her while she shook and wept. A while later I guided her through to the bed and we lay on it, spooned together like babes in the wood. Sleep quickly carried her away from me. I lay for what seemed hours, waiting for the running feet in the night and the shouts of Raus, Raus!

  TWENTY

  Next morning I ventured out. We were starving and I had a couple of dollars left for food. I also wanted information. I assumed the manhunt for us was well underway. Four Russian soldiers had seen the three of us hightail it from the scene of the crime. Mulder’s lover boy – if he survived – would corroborate. And a dozen terrified sharpshooters at the sector checkpoint had seen three ashen faces bearing down at them in a two-ton Merc. The Brandenburg Gate was a congregating point right smack in the middle of the city. We could hardly have got more publicity out of the front page of the Daily Trumpet. The question was who would be coming after us? The Brits? Russians? The military? Police? Or the lot of them?

  Much depended on how Gideon’s death and glory mission had climaxed. Had he got far enough away to divert them from us? Had he died in a fireball so violent that they couldn’t tell if there were three bodies in the car or one? Or had he ground to a halt, still alive, and been tortured till he’d disclosed who we were and where we were hiding? My guess was Gideon had died fighting or in the explosion we heard. If they had taken him alive and made him confess in his dying minutes, we would have had a reveille from Russian storm-troopers.

  It was a glorious day and the sunshine gave me unwarranted hope. I no longer had a gun to hide so I went without my jacket. I was in grubby rolled-up shirt-sleeves and open neck. But I’d borrowed Eve’s beret to hide my red hair. It was tight but not much different from my old army version. I decided to wander back up the road to see what I could see at the Gate. A cliché of my own making: the criminal returning to the scene of the crime. Stupid if there was anyone around who could recognise me.

  I tried to walk nonchalantly, hands in pocket, as I came to the corner of the last building before the roads opened up and led to the Gate. I stood with my back against the wall and lit up, as though I hadn’t a care. The Gate was about four hundred yards away in open ground. The sun was behind me so I got a good view. There was a cordon round one part of the Gate and if I screwed my eyes up I could make out the burnt wreckage of the car. Gideon hadn’t fooled around. He’d gone straight for it like Jimmy Cagney charging the Feds, both guns blazing and roaring like a stag in heat. There were plenty of guards round the wreck, some in Russian uniform and some from our own side. There were also plenty of gawpers, so I didn’t feel too conspicuous wandering over.

  I feared seeing the charred body of Gideon in the heap of twisted metal, but the car was mercifully clear of burnt remains. The front was stoved in and fire had swept through the rest, but it was recognisably my Merc. Vic’s Merc. Where Gideon had hit the wall was blackened in smoke. Guards were shoving people away. I asked one of my fellow ghouls what had happened.

  “A madman killed himself in protest at the rationing.”

  “No, no,” another guy interrupted. “It was one of Hitler’s generals. He had been hiding but became insane and made a last assault on the Russians. A brave man,” he whispered.

  I would get no sense here and turned and walked away. A voice behind me called out, “McRae? That you, McRae?”

  I walked faster, trying to put people between me and him. I broke clear of the crowds around the gate and began to trot. It was never a good idea to run in a place so brimful of guilt. But the guy behind me wasn’t to be shaken off.

  “McRae! Stop, Danny! Stop or I’ll shoot, so help me god!”

  I stopped and turned round and waited for him to catch me up. He was breathless but he was also in uniform and holding his service pistol.

  “Hello, Vic.”

  “You stupid sod! I nearly shot you.”

  “In the back? Vic, how could you?”

  “Because of what you did to my car, you bastard!” He was right in my face and angry, but at least he’d lowered his gun.

  We locked gazes till he laughed. “What the fuck is going on, Danny? Have you any idea the shit I’m in? This car isn’t – wasn’t! – exactly inconspicuous. I got hauled out of bed at five this morning by a bunch of pissed-off Redcaps wanting to know why I’d tried to demolish the fucking Brandenburg Gate, and mow down half the fucking Russian army in the process? Not to mention – not to fucking mention! – shooting District Controller Heinrich fucking Mulder himself!”

  “Vic, I can understand you’re a wee bit upset…”

  “A wee bit fucking upset!”

  “Vic, don’t shout. You’ll draw attention to us. Let me buy you a beer and explain.” I took his arm and led him like a recalcitrant child back to the shelter of the shattered buildings. We found a bar, and though it was barely nine o’clock they found us a beer each. I made him pay.

  “I’m sorry about the car,” I started.

  “You’re sorry!”

  “You’re shouting again.”

  He sat back and folded his arms. “I’m waiting.”

  I checked the room. The barman was listening to the radio, a mix of news and music from Voice of America. The only other customer was three tables away and staring into his cup – readi
ng his tea leaves maybe. I leaned forward to Vic and told him everything that happened, more or less. In fact, rather less than more.

  I didn’t tell him the Jewish resistance stuff, and I was at pains to make him believe that Eve hadn’t pulled the trigger on Mulder. But a British court might not see the difference between doing the murder and helping at it. Come to that, I might have some serious explaining to do in the dock as well.

  Vic interrupted me at the start but as I got to the last twenty-four hours he listened to me in silence with his arms folded. When I stopped, he lit another fag and shook his head.

  “I have to hand it to you, Danny. You’ve been in this town less than a week and you’ve managed to cause an international incident. That takes talent. I saw old Toby this morning. Scraped him off the bleeding ceiling I did. He was mental. Would have wrung your neck with his bare hands if you’d walked in the door.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “But he’s calmed down. A bit. Now his current mission in life is to get you off his patch as fast as your little legs can pedal.”

  “What about Eve?”

  “Her too, I imagine. They want her back in Blighty, so I guess they’ll take the pair of you back. Then you can sort it out from there. And we can get on with turning Berlin back into the cabaret capital of Europe. If that’s all right by you…”

  I didn’t tell him where we were hiding. I agreed to meet him, same place, same time tomorrow to hear how Toby wanted to handle it. The bar could be approached from a number of angles and though it had more board than glass in its windows, I would be able to check if there was a platoon of Redcaps waiting to pounce. On my way back I did some hard bartering in one of the open markets and carried my treasure to the flat. It didn’t look so tasty set out on the table.

  “You should have sent me,” she said prodding the blackening spuds and cabbage and the dark red sliver of fatty meat.

  “If you’re going to complain about it…”

  “Joking, joking. You did well, Danny. I can make a meal out of this. But we won’t bark too loudly in case the meat twitches, eh?”