War's Last Dance

by Julia Underwood

  She returned to the hall and wound up the old gramophone. Tchaikovsky - that would be lovely. She carefully wiped a record and put it on the turntable. She stuffed some old socks into the body of the machine so that it wouldn’t be too loud and wake Penny. She rested the needle on the record and immediately the plaintive notes echoed. Isabel shook off her shoes and stepped out of her dress. In her petticoat and stockinged feet she began to dance. She lifted her arms and pirouetted across the floor. Fouettées, arabesques, pas des chats. She twirled and skimmed like a wisp of thistledown. She whirled across the floor as if possessed. As time passed and the music ended, her anger drained away and, exhausted, she staggered to her bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Berlin, Autumn 1946

  John pulled the coat closer around his neck. God, it’s bloody freezing. A malign wind blew between the mass of bricks and rubble. Eddies of grit and brick dust skittered around his feet. It was trying to snow. Icy darts burned John’s cheeks in spite of the woollen neck of the old submarine jumper, a souvenir from another life, pulled up as high as possible. He hoped no one would notice that the coat was military issue. He had ground down the plastic buttons to blur the badges; taken off the shoulder flashes. Surely enough greatcoats had been stolen in the last months for this one to be inconspicuous. They had to be the greatest antidote to a penetrating wind.

  John stopped to get his bearings. Every street and alley looked the same. This was not an area where the army had organised a clean-up operation; it would be years before progress was made. Fritz’s home was a shack constructed amongst the rubble of a bombed-out building. Straight on from the old red Katze sign, Fritz had assured him, you can’t miss it. I hope he was right. It’ll be difficult to explain what I’m doing here after curfew.

  Peering ahead through the misty gloom, John glimpsed a tiny chink of light. He hurried towards it, swearing as he knocked his anklebone against the sharp edge of a brick.

  ‘Bugger!’

  He limped towards the sliver of light. The path ahead was suddenly and brilliantly illuminated as a makeshift door - a wobbling sheet of old board - was pushed aside from the entrance to a ramshackle shelter.

  ‘Not so much bleeding noise. Do you vant to vake the whole neighbourhood?’

  The man standing outlined in the light resembled a scarecrow. His hair was matted and his face gaunt, the cheekbones stood out in sharp relief under the lined yellow skin. In the hovel behind him the makeshift walls were plastered with any rotten junk that could be found to fill the cracks against the searching wind. The floor was carpeted with newspapers and what appeared to be books, their backs broken and squashed against the raw ground in a parody of tiling. An old primus stove, emitting the chemical odour of burning paraffin, stood in the centre, caked with grease and supporting an ancient tin kettle. A rough bed, covered with layers of filthy tumbled bedding, filled the remaining space.

  Fritz dragged John into the reeking den, looking for the curfew patrol as he pushed him through the door. The light, which had seemed blinding from outside, inexplicably dimmed to a flicker from the oil lamp within with the door closed.

  ‘Brass monkeys weather, eh, old boy?’

  ‘Certainly is, Fritz.’ John acknowledged. He often chuckled at the way Fritz Keller had adopted English phrases and clichés. This was particularly odd, as Fritz’s hatred of the occupying forces seemed to have no bounds. John knew he was only tolerated because he was useful and supplied him with what he wanted. In no way was John ever going to place his trust in Fritz’s grasping hands, ever eager to stab him in the back at the first opportunity.

  ‘What have you got for me today?’ asked Fritz, licking his unsavoury lips.

  John silently withdrew several cartons of cigarettes from the capacious pockets of his coat, like a conjuror at a children’s party. Fritz grabbed them greedily.

  ‘No drugs? We need drugs.’

  ‘Hang on. I haven’t finished.’ John put his hand into his inside pocket and carefully drew out half a dozen fragile glass vials wrapped in an airmail copy of the Daily Telegraph, tissue soft and whisper thin.

  ‘Morphine. Be careful with it, these things break easily.’

  ‘Wonderful. You are a genius, Johno. Erm..., I don’t suppose you managed a syringe did you – and a few needles?’ Fritz’s eyes gleamed greedily in the pale light.

  ‘Sorry, almost forgot.’ With expert legerdemain John delved into his coat again and with a flourish a narrow cardboard box appeared in his hand. ‘There are about four needles. Remember to sterilize them between patients if you can – boiling water will do.’ John realised this advice was superfluous as Fritz was unlikely to be the end-user of these precious products. The chain of trade within the black market wound a complex and mysterious route.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Fritz grabbed the treasure and stashed everything in an old biscuit tin with a faded and scratched painting of a puppy on the lid. ‘You have no idea how valuable all this is. You are a good friend.’ The last words dragged from him with reluctance.

  ‘Not at all, old boy. Now - sorry to remind you - but what about your side of the bargain?’ He sat on a narrow canvas camping chair beside the stove.

  Fritz fished around and eventually his hand reappeared clasping a bundle of dirty, crumpled dollar bills and thrust them into John’s hands. ‘No use to me, John. Fair exchange I call it.’ Fritz chortled. He bent double with a rasping cough that seemed to contort his whole body.

  ‘That doesn’t sound too good, Fritz. Want me to get you something for it?’ John said as he pocketed the cash. Hundred dollar bills, and a lot of them too. They were useless to Fritz because of the new prohibition. That was why the black market flourished so vigorously and goods changed hands for valuables and cigarettes rather than for cash; a complete alternative economy based on barter.

  ‘Just stop the winter from coming, can you? That should do the trick.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ve got something else for you.’ John delved into his clothing again and withdrew a half bottle of Remy Martin. ‘I had a nip on the way here; otherwise it’s all there. Good stuff too.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver. Come; let’s have some now.’ Fritz extracted the cork from the brandy bottle and poured some into a glass jar that served as a drinking vessel.

  ‘Prosit,’ he swigged and shared the jar with John, who sipped the spirit delicately, not wishing to deprive Fritz of more than necessary.

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask you,’ said John.

  ‘That was glanzend, splendid!’ Fritz smacked his lips noisily. ‘Ja, what was that?’

  ‘You remember, you said you know other people who would be willing to pay well for goods – coffee, fags and so on.’

  ‘You’re a greedy little Britischer, aren’t you?’ Fritz regarded him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘OK, if you say so.’ John grinned. ‘But is there anyone else I should be talking to? We could expand this enterprise, you know. Even get into bigger items, machinery maybe, vehicles, radios. What do you think?’ John felt the tension rising. This could finally be the breakthrough he had been waiting for. If Fritz would only lead him to the people further up the chain, to the Slavs, the Russian deserters and the ex-Nazi black-market racketeers. Many of these were resident in the camps run by the British. They lived in relative luxury, with free bed and board. These were the people to whom Fritz sold his acquisitions, for food and life’s necessities.

  ‘Next time, John, I will arrange it. Better bring something to impress them though. Something bigger than your ‘fags’ or a bit of coffee. Something substantial. They don’t like meeting strangers, particularly eager beaver Englischer strangers.’

  John nodded. ‘I’ll try. I may be able to lay my hands on some valuable stuff. Ssh!’ He put a finger to his lips. Outside they heard the clattering of rubble tumbling. Heavy boots struck the frozen ground.

  ‘Just the curfew patrol. They’re always around at this time of night.’

  Joh
n peeped through a chink in the makeshift door. A couple of heavily armed British Army privates were cautiously making their way through the empty street towards a dark alleyway. They must have heard something there; maybe just a rat. Who would be out at this time of night? It was nearly one a.m.; time to go home.

  ‘I must be off. I’ll wait a minute for them to clear off. Enjoy the brandy.’

  ‘I’ll save a bit. May need it later; medicinal purposes. Thanks for the loot. I’ll do what I can about the introductions. Come the same time next week, I may have some news for you.’

  The patrol had passed and John sneaked out of the shack into the dim alley. He could still hear the patrol nearby so he set off in the opposite direction, planning to circle back later. God, he thought, tonight I could be shot by an English patrol, and next week I could be meeting a set of vicious robber barons ready to cut my throat as soon as look at me. Peril lurks in both directions. It looks as if I may have got myself into something quite dangerous. As he moved away the sound of Fritz’s fruity cough echoed off the devastated walls.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabel walked along the narrow corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house. The dingy servants’ quarters always oppressed her. She would have loved to brighten the walls with a coat of whitewash but this, like so many other things, was as scarce as whisky these days.

  The kitchen walls were tiled from floor to ceiling like an institution; plain off-white tiles, the glaze crazed and pitted, with a narrow line of dark green at shoulder height. The earlier residents had not managed to destroy this room and the kitchen equipment was intact, albeit rather basic. A huge cast iron stove dominated one wall, the mysteries of which only Irma had managed to master. A large square stone sink with vintage taps stood beside it. A square pine table dominated the centre of the room, the surface scrubbed white with elbow grease and time, with four sturdy chairs surrounding it.

  This was Irma’s domain. Isabel was so grateful to have her help. As well as being an accomplished cook, making impossibly delicious meals from their meagre rations, she adored Penny and was always happy to look after her and she kept the flat spanking clean. Isabel sometimes she felt redundant in the face of Irma’s remarkable efficiency.

  A small sound drew Isabel’s attention.

  Tears streamed down Irma’s cheeks and dripped into the sink as she tackled some washing. Sobs wracked her slim body. Isabel hurried to her and put an arm round the girl’s heaving shoulders.

  ‘Irma, whatever’s the matter?’

  Irma wiped the back of one soapy hand across her face. ‘Oh, Frau Barton. I am so unhappy.’

  ‘Come and sit at the table and tell me about it. Is it your mother?’

  Irma dried her hands and wiped her face. She sat on one of the chairs across the table from Isabel.

  ‘No, Mutti is fine. She’s managing well now I can help her.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s my boyfriend…’ Tears threatened to start again.

  Isabel felt a pang of remorse. She wasn’t aware that Irma had a boyfriend. How little she knew about the child. At first their stumbling language difficulties had made communication rudimentary, but they had cobbled together a mixture of English and German and now they understood each other most of the time.

  Isabel clasped Irma’s small hand across the width of the table.

  ‘What boyfriend? I didn’t know …’

  ‘Oh yes, Hank. So wunderbar.’ A tentative smile shone through her tears.

  ‘Hank? Not German then?’

  ‘No, he’s a big, strong American. So handsome! A corporal now.’

  Isabel calculated that this relationship must be a recent one because the American forces had been forbidden to speak to a German until recently. Fraternization was frowned on. The British had relaxed the rules last year in the face of constant flouting and they finally realised the futility of enforcement and took a more lenient view. The Americans had more recently changed their policy.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘At the PX. I go there with my friends. You can get chewing gum, chocolate and sometimes nylons, if you dance with the soldiers and I love to dance. They have a jukebox.’

  ‘How lovely!’ Isabel longed for nylons – John seldom seemed able to get them for her. She didn’t like to ask, but hoped Irma had not given up too much of herself in return for these gifts, she was very young, but Isabel supposed she should be realistic.

  Irma must have seen the doubtful shadow that crossed her face. ‘It’s all right, Frau Barton, Hank is a real gentleman.’

  ‘He sounds a paragon, dear. So why the tears?’

  ‘He is going away. “Posted”, is that what you say? To Hamburg.’

  ‘Ah, I see. That’s a long way.’

  ‘Ja, I may never see him again.’ Fresh tears started and her shoulders began to heave. Isabel tried to forestall a further outburst. She grasped Irma’s hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, perhaps I can do something. I hate to see you so sad.’

  A watery smile appeared on Irma’s lips. ‘Do you think you could help?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea, I could try. I’ll ask Chuck – Colonel Hoffstetter. He may be able to pull some strings. I take it your Hank doesn’t want to go?’

  ‘Oh no, Frau Barton. He likes it here, in Berlin. He doesn’t want to leave me. I would be so very grateful if you could help us.’

  Isabel couldn’t resist the appeal in the wide blue eyes, the hope written on the girl’s sweet face.

  ‘Try not to worry. And cheer up. Even if he has to go you could visit each other. There are trains to Hamburg. If he loves you he will do everything he can to keep in touch. Why don’t you get him to come round here one day, so we can meet him?’

  ‘Yes, I will do that, Frau Barton. Soon.’

  Isabel became aware of the delicious smell emanating from the stove. ‘What are you cooking? It smells wonderful.’

  ‘Goulasch. It has to cook for a long time, so I started this morning.’

  ‘I know, the beef they’ve been giving us lately must have died of old age. Still, I’ll look forward to it. I’m sorry, dear; I’ve got to go. I’m expecting Captain Marriott. I came down to ask you if you could look after Penny after school.’

  ‘Of course, Frau Barton. I will be happy to. I’m going to teach her to knit.’

  ‘That’s wonderful! She’ll like that. You have the most amazing patience. I must rush now. Bye!’

  Isabel made her way back to the hall thinking how she would always be grateful to Irma for her help and praying the girl wouldn’t leave to follow her man to Hamburg. What a nightmare, how on earth would I manage? Wryly she remembered that only a few months ago the idea of having a servant filled her with horror and now she was totally dependent on her maid.

  John was uncharacteristically late. He’d managed to get the Volkswagen and Anya sat with him in the front seat, wrapped in a bright blue coat with a luxuriant fur collar that almost covered her face. A gift from John, Isabel thought with a twinge of jealousy, lucky girl.

  ‘Chop chop, darling, we’re late.’ John saw the sardonic look on Isabel’s face and grinned. ‘OK, it’s my fault, sorry, nearly couldn’t get the car. Someone else wanted it for a jaunt, but I managed to pull rank.’

  Isabel climbed into the back behind John as Anya emerged from her fur.

  ‘So lovely to see you again. Are you well? You look blooming. Such a pretty hat. You didn’t get that in Berlin, I’m sure.’

  ‘No, in London before I came over.’

  ‘Ah, the hat,’ said John, ‘the first thing I saw of Isabel, that hat. Very fetching, I thought.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ purred Anya, ‘you do have an eye for the ladies. It’s very rare for a man to appreciate clothes as you do.’

  Isabel noted Anya’s proprietary tone as she spoke and how she idly stroked his arm.

  ‘Leave off, Anya. I’m trying to drive.’

  John half turned his head. ‘
We’re going to the lake. There’s a new little Gaststube that I’ve heard about. I’ve got to stop off on the way; a bit of business – shouldn’t take a minute.’

  The lovely bright autumn day lifted Isabel’s spirits. The sun dazzled between the trees and the sky was as clear and blue as summer. Possibly it would be balmy in the sunshine down by the lake. Anya’s strange, exotic perfume filled the car with fragrance. Musky and old-fashioned, it reminded Isabel of an Indian shop in the East End she had been into once; a scent that could lull you to sleep.

  They drove through the outer suburbs. It looked as if some reconstruction was taking place. Neat stacks of salvaged bricks stood beside the road and women and old men were trying to dig a foundation. Luckily little traffic travelled the street as John took the corners in his usual style, with a screech of tyres. Isabel’s nerves were already frayed and her fingers clung to the back of the front seat.

  ‘I’ve got to pay a quick call on someone before lunch. It’s near here somewhere,’ said John. ‘I’ve got the address.’ He indicated a slip of paper on the dashboard. ‘It’s just that these streets all look the same now and the street signs are lost on most of them.’

  After a few hundred yards the car skidded to a halt and the women lurched back and forth like a pair of limp dolls, protesting at the sudden braking.

  ‘Sorry, ladies. This is it. Won’t be long.’

  John leapt out and crossed the road, disappearing into the remnants of a suburban villa whose roof was torn in ragged shards leaving the attic open to the elements. A tarpaulin arrangement had been slung over it to cover part of the damage, but the recent winds must have dislodged it because it now hung like a limp curtain over the partly boarded-up windows of the second floor.