‘You have no evidence.’ John groped for the words, pointed towards Arthur standing a few yards away. ‘I have a witness.’
The younger officer produced a camera which he’d been holding behind his back.
‘We have what we need,’ he said in slow, minted English. John stepped back, arms flailing for balance, brushing the Russians as he fell. Had they taken pictures as he crouched over Lieselotte’s body, held her face, hands on her neck, feeling her pulse?
John pushed himself up. ‘No.’
He elbowed the lieutenant aside, stalked past the major, who grabbed his arm, spun him round, face up close so that John could see the bristles on his cheeks, the blackheads on his nose, smell his breath when he opened his mouth.
‘We know who you are. We know what you do.’ He jerked his head towards Lieselotte’s body. ‘We can help each other. Come to an agreement.’ He reached over and picked up Lieselotte’s bag with the clock, handed it to John, grabbing John’s hand to make sure he grasped the handles.
‘A memento.’
Evidence. John shook his head, let go of the bag so it dropped to the ground. The clock struck once, coils singing, fell silent.
‘Come,’ the thin lieutenant said. ‘Walk with me.’ He paused, added, ‘Just you.’ He nodded at his colleague. Arthur held up his arms as the major pointed his pistol at him.
The lieutenant clasped his hands behind his back, strolled as if this was a pleasure outing. John got the sense that he was the one in charge, even though he was the junior officer. John’s mouth tasted sour, and his empty stomach rolled in painful spasms. His legs had no feeling, no gristle. They went through the motions of walking. One foot, another. The officer was silent. They drew close to the willow tree. He stopped, turned to John.
‘My proposition is simple,’ he said, his accent thick as a noose. ‘You have military secrets that are, rightly, ours. Certain scientists you have interviewed, certain formula you privy to.’
‘No,’ John said. ‘You’re wrong. I haven’t interviewed them. I know nothing.’
‘I apologise,’ the officer said. ‘I exaggerate. You are translator. Am I correct?’
His English was faulty, but the meaning was clear. John nodded.
‘As translator, you learn many thing.’
John shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re wrong again. I reproduce a sentence, but I work without meaning.’
The officer pursed his lips. ‘I forget. You are new to this in the West, translating as someone speaks. We are doing it many years in Soviet Union. It is rare skill. And you are young. Inexperienced. Doing it for first time.’ He paused, eyeing John, scrutinising him. John stood, fighting the trembling, the urge to run. Keep your wits, he thought, be agile. ‘You correct transcripts, do you not?’
The officer knew too much about their practices. John said nothing.
‘Let me explain your situation,’ he went on, articulating each syllable. ‘The British do not allow their men to fraternise, any more than we allow ours. Disobedience is an offence, is it not?’ He peered closely at John, studying his insignia, added, ‘Lieutenant. Same as me.’ He patted his chevrons, grinned. ‘Before, soldier. Now, lieutenant. Very clever.’
John’s sinews tightened, tendons cramped. Paralysed.
‘And murder,’ he said. ‘Cold-bloodied murder. That is capital offence, no? I believe penalty is death. Hung by neck until dead. Or perhaps, in army, you would be shot.’ The officer picked off a willow leaf, rubbed it between his finger and thumb. ‘Such an elegant tree,’ he said. ‘Good for hide-and-seek.’
John breathed hard. Arthur was a distance away, standing by the major, back to the bridge, his arms hovering over his head.
‘My offer is as follows,’ the lieutenant began. ‘You pass us information we require. We have interest in particular scientists, particular subjects. If you accept our offer, we give you our shopping list. In return, we keep this murder to ourselves. Your commanding office, Major Buchanan—’ he looked at John, he knew a great deal ‘— may never know you rape and murder innocent young woman.’
John’s mind was frozen, hard and cold as a glacier. ‘That’s preposterous,’ he said, his voice thin, reedy. ‘You have no evidence.’
‘We have all evidence we need to prove case.’
‘You wouldn’t be believed,’ John said.
‘You wouldn’t want to put that to test, would you?’ He clicked his heels, saluted, walked away, stopped. ‘I almost forgot. I meet you here next week. Same time.’
John watched until he was out of sight, then turned and walked back to Arthur. The major put his pistol away as John approached, went behind the broken bridge, hidden from view. Arthur lowered his arms, rubbed his aching muscles. He looked angry, said nothing as he joined John. John’s reckless, foolish passion had put Arthur in danger, implicated him in a crime, an accessory.
The evening was silent, save for the pigeons’ breathy calls and the grating screech of a grey hooded crow. There was a loud splash, as if a crescent wave had broken, or a body fallen into the canal. The surface of the water rippled, lapped against the shore.
The major came out from behind the bridge, wiping his hands down his trousers.
There is no way out, John thought.
Arthur’s silence was as loud as the plash of Lieselotte’s body as she was rolled into the canal. He couldn’t have known what the Soviet officer had said, but the way he held himself, the set of his cheek muscle, the veins in his temple told John that he understood its gist.
‘I owe you an apology,’ John said.
Arthur carried on walking, black army boots heavy on the broken pavement.
‘Sorry won’t get you out of this mess, sir,’ he said. ‘Not to me, not to anyone. Least of all that young woman.’
John swallowed. He should have said no, the bridge was too isolated, they’d meet by the Brandenburg Gate. He’d allowed his infatuation to colour his judgement. Her body had still been warm, though her skin had palled. He had smelled the damp soil in her hair, the blood caked on her hands and legs, the cloying scent of death. Her eyes had been open, bronze coins that had lost their lustre. He hadn’t closed them. Why not? It was the least he could have done.
‘If I report this,’ Arthur said, ‘you’ll be court-martialled.’
He was right, but John was in no position to plead with him, Keep quiet, please.
They had entered the Kurfürstendamm. The barman from the Blaue Engel was serving tables on the street.
‘We have transport back, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘In a while.’
John heard the words, nodded. Arthur beckoned the barman over as they came close.
‘Two brandies.’ He was walking and pointing to an empty table in the farthermost reach of the forecourt. John followed him over, sat down.
‘I should have listened to you,’ John said.
Arthur pulled out his cigarettes, took one and lit it, putting the pack away without offering it to John.
‘You’re on your own, sir,’ Arthur said.
The barman brought two large bulbous glasses filled to the brim, and a carafe of water and tumblers. He put them on the table, waited, his hand outstretched.
John reached for his wallet, pulled out the money, gave it to him. ‘Keep the change.’
Keep the change. A pittance.
John stared at the glasses, at the brandy refracting the light from the setting sun into a rainbow. How could he have been so idiotic? Mixed up Arthur in the whole business. He was about to be demobbed, to go back to civilian life, to his wife and little boy whom he’d never seen. He’d been fighting for five years. That was enough for any man. And he, John, had put that at risk.
‘I’m not asking for your help, sergeant,’ John said. ‘I’m thinking how I can extricate you from my mistakes.’
Lieselotte. Had he loved her? It had felt real. Had his feelings for her been reciprocated? Had she, too, wanted a quiet spot where they could be together? Even so, he
should have kept her safe, been a man. She’d died as if by his own hand.
They knew a lot about him, those Russians. Who he was, what he did. They knew where to stick their stiletto in, where to turn it. How did they know that?
He took a long sip of the brandy, its warmth gliding across his tongue and down his throat, his brain coming alive as the alcohol hit. Too much would leave him with a thick head and a thundering pain, and he might welcome that later, but for now it lifted him, made his senses more alert, acute. Arthur’s face was in sharp focus, his ginger hair and freckles like a halo shedding gold dust. He hadn’t noticed how his hair was wavy, how his eyes were a deep, Atlantic blue.
‘Captain Thornton,’ Arthur was saying, ‘GSO3 in the Berlin Garrison. Perhaps best to make a clean breast of it.’ Adding, ‘Sir.’
John heard the name, leaned back in the chair, fingering his brandy, avoiding Arthur’s eye.
‘See what he can advise.’ Added, ‘Tell him I sent you.’
T-Force was the invisible wasp of the army, gobbling prey then dying away. Top secret. The bigwigs on the ground didn’t know. John couldn’t blow that cover, even with Arthur’s recommendation. He’d be in worse trouble than he already was.
He stared into the distance, willing her to appear, sauntering between the tables, sitting with her skirt tucked tight around her thighs. Not ruched around her waist. Not raped. Murdered. Lieselotte. Who was she? He knew nothing about her. She had been expendable. No more than an object, like her clock, or this glass. He picked it up, swirling the drink around so it rose and fell, coating the sides with an amber sheen. He stared at it, at her eyes reflected there. He gulped it down, her image dissolving.
John stood up and threw the glass onto the ground, where it shattered into a thousand shards.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Berlin: July 1945
She woke up, startled by the birdsong, by an unease, as if there’d been an explosion, or a door banging. Lieselotte’s side of the bed was empty. Bette flung back the cover but the sheet was smooth, the pillow plumped up. Lieselotte had not returned.
Bette swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, going to the window, leaning out. The bedroom faced the back courtyard and the place was deserted. Lieselotte had said she’d never leave her. But she had. She’d run off. That’s why she hadn’t let Bette go with her yesterday, because she was eloping. With her soldier.
Or Boris. Boris. She was carrying his baby, after all, and he’d said he would marry her.
She fingered her nightdress, scrunching it between her fingers, staring into the early-morning silence. What should she do? Who could help her? Frau Weber? Frau Weber had changed. She was drunken, coarse, played up to Greta’s father, told Bette she wasn’t wanted.
Bette sat down on the side of the bed. Lieselotte wouldn’t leave her to marry Boris, or anyone. She just wouldn’t. She’d said she knew a doctor who would fix the baby. Perhaps that’s where she was going yesterday. Something had happened to her. She’d had an accident. Or died. How would Bette know? Who would tell her? Her sister was missing, but there were so many in the same boat, there was no point in adding Lieselotte to a list, even if she knew where to report her. Perhaps she’d joined the refugees, the people finding a way home or running to safety. She’d heard about them, though they hadn’t seen so many in Mitte, not coming into the heart of Berlin. Only leaving. Would the Americans know? Or the British? She wouldn’t do that without Bette. Unless she’d gone ahead to pave the way, would send for her later.
Yes. She was in a camp somewhere, where they put those kinds of people.
She padded out of the bedroom. The clock in the sitting room showed half past five. She had slept for hours. Bette dressed, pulling on the trousers, the dirty shirt, Otto’s socks and shoes. Fear gnawed inside her, chomping at her gut, chewing on its gristle. Lieselotte wasn’t in a camp. That wasn’t what had happened. Something else had cropped up. She had been right to have been anxious. A premonition. She went to the bureau, pressed the buttons and pulled the levers in sequence, fingered the pistol Boris had left them. Bette brought it out of its secret place, took it with her into the kitchen, laid it on the table. She wasn’t sure how to use it, except to point and squeeze the trigger, but it felt all right, sitting there, shielding her.
She should eat. Perhaps she’d feel better, settle her stomach, but there were no more rolls left. Perhaps Lieselotte had been out after curfew, taken shelter somewhere. She’d be hungry when she came home. Would Herr Grossman have more bread today?
The heft of a boot on the broken stone echoed round the empty stairwell. Another. Strangers had moved into the Baumanns’ apartment but Bette never heard them coming and going. This step was laboured, deliberate. Lieselotte’s was light, nimble. This was a man’s tread. It was early in the morning. He was coming closer, louder. She heard him pause, heard the hiss of water as he pissed against a wall. Treads again. Up, up. Stopped. He was on the landing outside, his breathing laboured, wheezy. Who would be out at this hour? Perhaps he’d come to visit her new neighbours.
The key stabbed at their door, and she moved her fingers close to the gun. This was not Lieselotte. Those were not her steps. Who had a key to their apartment? Lieselotte knew how to jig the key, just so. She didn’t need to stab at it, rattle it. Vati. Perhaps Vati had come home. Had forgotten the knack with the lock. She should open the door, let him in.
A man shouted, in Russian. Bette grabbed the gun, held it like Boris had shown her, arms out straight, two hands, squinting along the sights, pointing at the door. Her body was tense, firm, but inside it trembled. She couldn’t shoot. What if it didn’t go off? What if it wasn’t loaded? She held the gun steady as the door gave way. Vasily stumbled in.
She smelled the alcohol, even from the end of the hall, the stale sweat. He staggered towards her, opening his mouth in a leer.
‘Bert.’
Lurched forward. Three metres away. The gun was heavy. She held it tighter, to steady it as it shook in her hand. Two metres. She must shoot. Her stomach griped, iron in her mouth. His arms were reaching out as he pitched to the side. Now. She must do it now. Bette pointed, eyes blurred, the sights out of focus. Fired. The sound exploded in her head, the recoil pushed her off balance, but Vasily had slumped to the floor. Bette stood, trembling, taking in what she’d done, the noise drumming in her skull, echoing in her ears, the smell of sulphur filling her nose and mouth. Blood oozed through his trousers, puddling on the rug. He was groaning, holding his leg. Bette stared, unsure what to do. She had shot someone. Her heart was hammering, and she was sweating, hands sticky on the gun. He shouted at her. He was alive, could kill her. Run, run. She had to get by him, get over him. She breathed fast, jumped towards the door. He leaned out as she passed, grabbing her shin so she tumbled forward, hitting her nose on the edge of the door. His fingers gripped as she fell, and the gun tumbled from her hand. She lay on her back as he snaked around. Her mind was spinning fast, her breath shallow. Think. Now. She pushed the gun beyond his reach, lifting her leg sharply so he lost his hold, brought her heel down on his hand, kicked out at his face, pushed herself into a sitting position, legs flailing, heels flying. The strength was sudden, came from nowhere, out of control. He was trying to stand, hovering over her. She cowered, waiting for his blows, but his leg gave way and he crumpled. She jumped up without thinking, kicked his wounded leg hard, and hard again as he curled in pain, still as a sleeping snake, leaping over his body, through the door, slamming it behind her, two steps at a time down the broken stairwell and into the street.
Round the corner. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. He could be following. He had a gun. Lieselotte. She must find her. She’d been in the Kurfürstendamm. That’s where she was. Bette knew the way to the Tiergarten at least. Run and run. On. Run on. Her lungs hurt, her muscles were soft. No gristle, no strength. Run. She had a stitch. She needed to stop. She turned around but the street was empty behind her. She leaned against the wall of a building,
doubled over, pressing her gut, chest heaving, her breath in short, shallow gasps.
A gang of women had started work clearing rubble opposite her. Was this where Lieselotte worked? She ran over.
‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ A Russian soldier moved towards her. Of course, he was in charge. She hadn’t seen him. She froze. Did he know? He flipped his wrist, move on, move on. She backed away, looking carefully. Lieselotte was not there. The women had formed a chain. The last woman stood on the street close to her. The Russian had turned his back and Lieselotte went over.
‘Have you seen my sister? Lieselotte?’
The woman shrugged, turned, stretched out her arms to take the next bucket, empty it out. She didn’t care.
Bette sniffed. Her nose hurt. She touched it with her fingertips. Blood. On her hands, on her shirt. Her face, damp and sticky. Of course. She’d smashed it against the edge of the door. It hadn’t hurt at the time, but now it throbbed.
She must go on. Apart from the women and their Russian gangmaster, the street was empty. She turned around, trying to find her bearings. She used to know the way to Unter den Linden, to the Kranzler Café, but the streets bore no resemblance to the boulevards she had known. The handsome buildings which had flanked them were mounds of rubble, the elegant cafés and shops no more than memories, their signage burned and buried in the ruins. Without the tall apartment blocks, the landmark signs, the streets merged into one desolate landscape, a topography of death, of destruction.
Bette turned. Spotted the cathedral. She knew where she was. Its spire was gone, its dome scarred, open sores where the windows had been. Behind it, the museums, their buildings black and battered with gaping windows and crumbled porticos, their walls gnawed and chewed. The Neues Museum had lost its cupola, its corners skewed, piles of broken bricks. She blinked. Mutti used to take them here once a month. They knew the Pergamon like an old friend, had stood in awe, she and Lieselotte. How had they got them here? That ancient altar? Those biblical gates?
The Forgotten Page 20
