John indicated Isabel with his hand. Sarcasm edged his voice. ‘Yes, you might as well, now you’re here. Go ahead.’
The Major started to shoot off hard, staccato questions in Isabel’s direction; bullets from a machine gun. She cowered into the chair as each question bombarded her, blow after blow.
‘No - I explained, there was so much going on...’ Isabel’s voice was rising in distress.
‘And where was your husband?’ Goddard paused to look at John.
John began to answer. ‘Major Barton. He’s…’
‘Let Mrs Barton answer please,’ the Major snapped. John shook his head in annoyance.
‘He’s at an Intelligence conference in Hanover,’ Isabel said. ‘He won’t be back until next Wednesday. It may be later, it depends how it goes.’
‘Have you looked for the child? Perhaps she’s hiding somewhere.’
‘Of course we’ve looked for her. We searched for over an hour inside the house and out. We couldn’t find her anywhere. Then it got dark and it was snowing hard and freezing, and the phone didn’t work and I had to come and get Captain Marriott’s help.’
‘How did you get here? You live in Grunewald you said.’
‘I was driven in an American jeep.’
‘American?’ The major managed to inject outrage into his voice. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story. My maid has an American boyfriend.’
This explanation clearly filled Major Goddard with disgust. ‘And you say you also had a German national with you? It must be against regulations, even in the American forces, to drive civilians around in jeeps without prior permission.’
In triplicate, thought John as he stepped forward to halt the interrogation. ‘Enough of this, it’s getting us nowhere. I think we may be missing the point. Look, Mrs Barton is very distressed and you’re not helping. With all due respect, it may be better if I explain it to you. I’ve heard the whole story. Sit down and I’ll go through it. It’s really not very complicated.’
Goddard reluctantly unbent sufficiently to perch on the edge of one of the dining chairs. His Sergeant stood at his elbow.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take notes, Sergeant,’ suggested John. ‘Then you’ll know where to go and so forth.’
The Sergeant flinched and withdrew a small notebook from his battledress blouse’s top pocket. ‘Sir,’ he said, the first word he had uttered since entering the apartment.
Within ten minutes John had related the story of Penny’s disappearance, the Sergeant scribbling down the details of addresses. When John finished the Major rose to his feet.
‘That seems clear enough. I’ll instigate a search in the morning. I’ll inform the Polizei and get them in on it. They may be able to spare some men. But I must warn you, with all the snow, there may not be any traces. If we don’t find her soon, I don’t know what we can do. You may have to prepare for the worst.’ A sharp cry came from Isabel. ‘Who can we question beyond the drivers of the two trucks? They may have seen something.’ His tone implied that he did not hold out much hope of this.
The Major had voiced the fears that John had silently thought. Isabel stared at Goddard in despair.
‘There were people in the street. There always are at about five thirty; coming back from the shops. People walk to the park to find firewood. Someone may have been looking out of a window,’ she said.
‘I suppose we’ll have to do a house to house.’ The major said grudgingly, implying that this was the last thing he wanted. ‘If we have enough men.’
‘Oh please! You must do everything you can,’ Isabel begged, fighting back renewed tears.
‘We will, of course, Mrs Barton. But for now I must go. Try not to worry. I’ll be at your address tomorrow morning at nine.’ He turned sharply towards the door and, with his Sergeant in his wake, left the apartment. John slammed the door behind them with undue firmness.
‘Well!’ Fury blazed in his eyes. ‘What an insensitive, stuck-up prig! He’d got a poker up his arse, hadn’t he? I’m sorry, Isabel. Obviously he’s not prepared to do anything until the morning. I just hope he’ll get his finger out then.’
‘It’s all right, John. I know he can’t do anything now. It’s cold and wet and horrible, as well as totally black. We’ll have to wait until the morning. I’m sure someone must be looking after her,’ she added hopefully.
‘Would you like to go home now, darling?’
‘Yes please, John. I know it’s unlikely, but just in case she’s come home.’
‘OK. Just a minute. I’ll get ready and then drive you; the car’s outside. I’ll stay the night; you’ll need me there to deal with Goddard in the morning. And I’ll try to get hold of Bill in Hanover. Hopefully the phone will be on again by the morning.’
‘Oh, I’d be very grateful, John. I hope it’s all right with Anya.’
‘Don’t worry, love, she won’t mind.’
He went to his room to pack a small bag with necessities. Anya was still there. God, he had completely forgotten about her. She was lying, fully clothed again, on the bed with a small magazine, Lilliput, in her hands. She waved it in the air.
‘This is quite funny you know, John.’ She stretched lazily, like a contented cat.
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry, darling. You quite went out of my head.’
‘I know. I thought it best to get out of the way. There was enough drama without me being there.’
‘I’ve got to go. I have to take Isabel home and I’ll stay there. I can’t leave her on her own. She’s very upset.’
Anya leaned across the bed. ‘It’s fine, schatzi. I understand. I don’t expect you to stay. But you owe me,’ she laughed provocatively.
John bent over the bed to kiss her. ‘You, madam, are a bad girl. I’ll see you soon. You can stay if you like; I’m sure it’s warmer than your place. It’s nearly curfew anyway. You shouldn’t be walking about in this snow, it’s getting deeper. Let’s hope it stops by morning.’
‘Thank you, darling, I will.’ Anya snuggled into the pillows and picked up the magazine. ‘Sleep well,’ she murmured.
A few moments later the door to the flat slammed and soon after that the rattle of the car sounded as it left for the Grunewald.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anya
When she heard the door close behind John and Isabel, Anya leapt off the bed. I have to get out of here, she thought, whatever the weather’s like. She snatched up some of John’s clothes and started to dress again. She removed her frock; the silk underwear was soon concealed by a long shirt and John’s old submariner’s jumper swamping her tiny figure. Pulling on a pair of trousers cinched tightly around her waist with a leather belt, she rolled up the hems to prevent them dragging on the ground. She pulled her fur boots over a thick pair of socks and tucked the trouser legs into the boots. She topped the outfit with a pea-jacket that was short on John but covered her like an overcoat. Finally she found a pair of gloves and, clumsy though they were on her tiny hands, she knew she’d be grateful for them out in the freezing streets. She topped the lot with a woollen hat that had seen better days. No-one will recognise me in all this, she thought, I look just the same as the other vagrants wandering the streets.
Warmly dressed, she left the apartment, quietly closing the door behind her so that no curious neighbour would look out to see who was leaving at this hour. The demise of the Nazis had not diminished the watchfulness of the German residents.
As she stepped into the street an impish gust of wind blew a blizzard of loose snow up in front of her, obliterating her vision. She bent her head and hurried on. She had to reach her destination before curfew.
Christo, this is going to be awful, she thought.
The cloud of snow alighted on the smooth surface of untrodden whiteness and the perverse wind died down. The snow was falling more heavily now and settling on the thick blanket already spread over the street. The pavements were indistinguishable from the road and all sound was absent. No footprints
marked the surface of the snow; pure whiteness radiated as far as Anya could see. The tyre tracks of John’s car had already been erased.
I must go and see Pyotr, she thought. He may know something about this kidnap. Perhaps he is behind it. He was certainly angry with the British. But why would he take the kid? What could the Russians gain from it? Was it supposed to be some sort of punishment? Surely that could only cause trouble. It would make the Brits angry; they were very protective of their children and didn’t let them out of their sight. Poor kid, she must be scared to death and cold; this weather is a bastard.
Anya felt some sympathy for Isabel’s plight. She didn’t like children much, but could imagine how painful it must be if your only child was missing. She had an inkling that the Russians might think that they would have a hold over Bill Barton and John if they took the child. Would they ask for a ransom? Demand some sort of reward for her return? Anya knew they weren’t happy about something. The Bizonia ‘threat’, as they saw it, had caused heated discussion, as had the rapid withdrawal of negotiable American dollars.
She stumbled forward, occasionally losing her footing on the slippery surfaces covering submerged bricks and stones that caught her unawares. She managed to stay upright. A nasty fall in these conditions could prove fatal as an injured person unable to move was not likely to be found for hours, or until the morning when it would be too late to save them. She didn’t fancy death by hypothermia.
Soon she arrived at the border to the Russian zone. There was still easy freedom of passage between the zones. At this time of night the border was only loosely guarded; few people attempted to cross so near to curfew. She passed close to a small guards’ hut with light and heat pouring out over the snow. Anya avoided the area of radiance and slipped past in the dark. The guards are probably asleep by now, drunk on vodka and the heat from their kerosene heater, a dangerous combination.
Although the route through the eastern zone to Pyotr’s billet was familiar to her, the camouflaging effect of the snow made landmarks almost invisible. She stumbled on, afraid of getting lost. Eventually she recognised her surroundings, hurried down the street and banged on the door of Pyotr’s drab and anonymous house.
Moments later a Russian voice grumbled from within.
‘Who’s there? Who can it be at this time of night?’
Anya heard the stomping of heavy feet as someone came towards the door and fumbled noisily with something inside.
Anya banged again, frozen now she was standing still.
‘Wait a minute, can’t you? I’m unlocking it.’
Oleg Kalinsky stood outlined in the doorway.
‘Anya! Is that you? It’s very late.’
God, she thought, that bastard Kolinsky’s here.
‘Can I come in, Colonel? I’ve some interesting information for you.’
‘News? At this time of night?’
Another voice called from the kitchen at the rear.
‘Who is it, Oleg? Bring them in for God’s sake. The cold air’s coming in.’
Oleg waved Anya in with one of his great paws. He presented an unappetising picture in his grubby shirt-sleeves. A pair of wide braces held up his trousers and the usual odour of vodka came from his sweaty skin as if his pores were secreting the stuff.
‘It’s Anya,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘she’s got news.’
Pyotr was slouched in a chair in the filthy kitchen, which looked as if no-one had touched it for months. It smelled revolting; of rotting food and grease. Oily deposits covered every surface and dishes were piled high in and around the stone sink. Housekeeping was obviously not his strong suit.
‘Sit down,’ Pyotr gestured towards one of the wooden chairs at the table, the surface of which was littered with dirty plates and glasses. Close to hand stood the ubiquitous bottle of vodka still with the bloom of ice on it. Anya noticed that the bottle was half-empty. If they had consumed that this evening they must be half-drunk by now. But she already knew that Oleg’s capacity for alcohol was prodigious and that he could consume enormous amounts without ill effects.
She removed the pea jacket, the hat and gloves and perched on the rickety chair.
‘So, what’s this news that you have to come here in the middle of the night through the snow? Couldn’t it have waited till tomorrow?’ Pyotr asked.
‘The Barton’s daughter has disappeared. It looks as if she was snatched from right under Isabel’s nose.’
With a deep bellow of laughter Oleg’s face brightened grotesquely. ‘Ah! The lovely Mrs Barton.’
‘Quiet, Oleg,’ snapped Pyotr. ‘Listen to what the girl has to say.’
‘I was at Captain Marriott’s...’ Oleg grinned and winked salaciously. Anya ignored him. ‘Isabel came round in a dreadful state - driven by an American Corporal, incidentally - she can’t find the child anywhere. She’s gone; probably kidnapped. Do you know anything about it?’
Pyotr looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Why would you think that? We don’t kidnap children.’ But he didn’t deny it.
‘I thought ...I thought you might know someone who would,’ Anya replied.
‘It’s more likely to be something to do with the black market people. They’re getting pretty fed up with all the investigations going on. It’s cramping their style.’ Pyotr laughed. ‘So many greedy people trying to make themselves rich and John Marriott and Bill Barton trying to stop them. A hopeless task, of course. It’s too big and a dangerous game to get mixed up in. They’re practically encouraging it, giving those criminals free board and lodging in the DP camps.’
‘But you know something about it, don’t you?’
‘About what?’
‘The black market.’ Anya shook her head with annoyance. Why did they always prevaricate so?
‘Of course. We do what we can to disrupt the economy and make things difficult for our British and American Allies. The black market is an efficient way of achieving this.’
‘But why? I don’t understand.’
‘Because those bastards, our so-called allies, want to take over and rule Germany. All this talk of getting the economy running again – it’s rubbish. They just want the power; to move their capitalist industries in to take over. They want us to fade into the background; slink away home and leave it all to them. After everything we fought for, the men we lost; our country in ruins. But it’s not going to happen, we won’t allow it. Field Marshall Stalin has given orders for us to prevent it and we shall. Even if it means starving them out of the city.’
‘I don’t think...’ Anya began.
‘No-body cares what you think, miss. A tart like you.’ Pyotr said.
‘I’m not a tart!’ Anya retorted, outraged. ‘I may be a British officer’s girlfriend, but that’s to help you too; to get information.’
‘And you’re well paid for it, don’t forget.’
Anya fell silent for a moment, thinking. ‘But what about this child? Who do you think may have her?’
‘I’d certainly look at the black market people. That chap Fritz Keller may know something; he seems to be involved in everything that’s going on. Do you know where to find him?’
‘I think so, John showed me once.’
‘Chances are he’ll be in the know. He’s got his dirty fingers in many pies.’
Anya stood up and began to put her outer clothes on. ‘I’d better go. It’s getting late. The curfew patrols will be out.’
‘Stay if you like, liebling,’ growled Oleg, stroking her. ‘We could have a good time.’
‘No thank you,’ said Anya, shuddering. ‘I’ll get away now.’
‘Have a little vodka to keep out the cold.’
Gratefully, but steeling herself against the unhygienic glass, Anya took a swig. The strong spirit burned her mouth and throat; made her teeth tingle, but she knew it would fortify her against the cold.
‘Keep in touch,’ Pyotr purred nonchalantly, not moving from his chair. ‘Tell us what happens.’
Anya turned and
left the kitchen, traversing the corridor alone and opening the front door on to the frozen night. I haven’t really found out anything, she thought. I’m sure they know more than they’re saying. How was she going to find out what had happened to Penny?
As Anya left Pyotr’s lodgings, she faced a new onslaught of snow. It fell in heavy whirling scuds, making the surroundings almost invisible. The cold penetrated every inch of her body. She drew the pea-jacket closer round her and set off again.
I’ll see if I can find Fritz Keller, she thought, he may know something. She couldn’t see him grabbing the child – Penny, so fastidious and armed with dire warnings from the adults about the danger of strangers, would never have gone off with the smelly, scruffy German. But still, he might have an idea who had taken her; he always seemed to know everything that was going on in the underworld of Berlin.
She struggled through the snow and concealed rubble, trying not to think about how cold she was. Why on earth am I doing this, she thought? The child’s no concern of mine. But fellow-feeling with Isabel drove her on. She had no particular love of Mrs Barton. If anything she should be jealous of her, after all, John was devoted to her and Anya was sure he would leave her for Isabel in an instant if he had the chance. But somehow she felt sorry for the woman in spite of this; it must be dreadful to lose a child and have no idea what had happened to her.
Eventually she arrived at Fritz’s shack, marooned in a landscape of broken buildings and a sea of rubble. Ragged walls stood around it, their tops randomly crenellated by artillery fire and now topped with a grotesquely pretty fringe of pure white snow. Heat from the shack had melted the snow on its roof and in a ring around it.
Good, thought Anya, he must be there. She crept closer to the hovel, taking care not to trip. As she drew closer she could hear voices inside. Two men. She recognised Fritz’s voice with its harsh, throaty sound and occasional hacking cough, but the identity of the other voice eluded her. It sounded familiar, not German even though it spoke in that language; English or American perhaps.
She crouched behind a broken wall and tried to listen. The foreigner seemed excited about something. She couldn’t make out the words and crept nearer to hear more clearly.
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