The Lieutenant's Lover

by Harry Bingham

  But she didn’t want to go to Misha with these lethally dangerous papers in her possession. She unpicked the thread on her boot lining with a pair of scissors. She pulled the thread free and drew out the folded black carbons. Now in her hand, it seemed like a very fragile cargo for a thing of so high a value. She had an impulse simply to throw them away. Who would bother to check some discarded carbon papers lying with other rubbish in a wastebasket? But she held back. Some sense of loyalty to Thompson stopped her. That, and a sense of how important they were, a sense of how much they mattered to the future of Germany, the future of Europe. She hesitated. There was movement in the passage outside, but it was only office workers going to or from the canteen.

  She continued to dither.

  What had brought Konstantinov here? It could be anything, of course. Karlshorst was the headquarters of the Russian occupation in Germany. Konstantinov could have a hundred reasons for coming, none of them likely to be connected with her. All the same, she remembered the glimpse she’d had of him. His bright face and eager strides. He had reminded her a little of Rodyon, back in the old days, the first days of the Revolution, when he’d stridden around Moscow seeking to put old wrongs right …

  An envelope lay on the desk in front of her. She shoved the carbon papers into the envelope, then ran the envelope into a typewriter and paused over the keys. She wanted to send the package to Mark Thompson, but she knew that that wasn’t his real name, nor did she possess an address for him. What about Marta? But envelopes leaving Karlshorst didn’t generally go to German citizens of no importance. Tonya paused another fraction of a second, then began to type. She had decided that the envelope should go to a senior official in the British military government; and the more senior the better, because the envelope was less likely to be tampered with on the way. She typed in the name and address of a major-general in the British sector, whose contact details she happened to know from her other work. She completed the address, then realised she had typed over the carbons inside. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about that. She pulled the envelope free of the typewriter and went to the door of the office.

  There were a couple of people in the passage outside, but no one of significance. No Konstantinov. No NKVD men. She went to the door leading into the lobby and peeped through. No Konstantinov. There were a couple of NKVD men, but there always were. No one seemed unusually on the lookout. There was a uniformed driver collecting packages from the central desk. A murmur of conversation carried across the room, amplified by the stone walls and floors. And suddenly, Tonya was walking out across the lobby, striding briskly towards the desk. The driver was only a yefreytor, a senior private and a glorified messenger boy. Tonya handed him her envelope.

  ‘And quickly now,’ she snapped, ‘this one’s urgent.’

  The driver nodded, acknowledging Tonya’s rank. He tucked the envelope in with the rest. Tonya walked towards the door of the lobby, followed by the driver. She stepped outside. The sunlight and the snow stung her eyes, but stung in a good way, stung in a way that marked the end of one thing and the start of another. She heard the driver start up his car and move off.

  Karlshorst was on the eastern edge of Berlin. It was here that the Soviet 5th Shock Army had pounded its way into Berlin. It was here that the German armed forces had finally signed the document of surrender. It was a long walk from here to Charlottenberg, to ‘Willi Nichts’ and the ‘Nothing Factory’. But the walk meant nothing. The past no longer meant anything. In two hours, no more, Tonya would be in Misha’s arms. She began to walk westwards down the street.

  Seven minutes later, Captain Arkady Konstantinov of the NKVD came running into the Karlshorst lobby, followed by his two men. He sprang to the front entrance and gazed up and down the street. There were a few women around, including a couple of Red Army soldiers, but no sign of Tonya. Konstantinov went to the driver of a Tatra truck that was unloading boxes at a side entrance. He asked the driver for information about Tonya’s movements. The driver shrugged and pointed.

  Konstantinov climbed into his jeep and took the wheel. His two men climbed in after him. Konstantinov raced up through the gears, turning sharply and driving snow upwards in a fine white arc.

  The jeep disappeared, heading west.

  9

  Sixty-five minutes later, at one twenty-two that afternoon, a curious scene took place at the Brandenburg Gate.

  A woman, a Red Army sergeant, warmly dressed against the cold, was walking briskly past the gate, crossing from the Soviet sector to the British one. The woman was in her forties and her life had clearly etched its difficulties in the lines of her face. All the same, though, there was something ineffably bright about her, something joyous. Her walk wasn’t just brisk, it was also full of life, movement and hope.

  Whatever the reason for the woman’s optimism, she certainly had a fine day for it. Snow lay around, with the brightness of a new fall. The air was cold and sharp. A brilliant sun marked every shadow with a crisp, clear edge, so the solemn shape of the big limestone arches, all the more solemn for being war-damaged, was repeated in perfect outline on the ground. The air was perfectly still.

  The woman had crossed through. That is to say, she had left the Soviet sector and she was clearly inside the British zone. There was a trio of British Tommies just in front of the Reichstag, or whatever was left of it, and those soldiers were absolutely certain of the point. But it made no difference. Why should it? Berlin was one city, Germany was one country. Invisible lines on the ground should make no difference, and they didn’t.

  The woman, walking fast, was beginning to jink right, as though intending to skirt the Tiergarten to the north. But then, from behind her, a Russian jeep, a UAZ diesel with its engine grindingly loud in the silent air, came hurtling too fast down the snowy roads. The sound caught the woman’s attention. She turned. As she did so, she thought to put her hand to her head, pulling down her army cap so that her face was partly covered by its brim. But the movement was an afterthought. It came a second or two later than it should have done if she had wanted to remain concealed. But it made no difference, in any event. There was nothing so uncommon about seeing Red Army troops in the western sectors, but then again there weren’t all that many middle-aged female Red Army sergeants to be found in the Tiergarten either.

  The jeep driver saw the woman. The driver turned the wheel and the jeep made a long skidding turn that flung it twenty or thirty feet sideways across the snow. But then the wheels got traction again. The woman began to run. But she had nowhere to run to. The jeep caught up with her. Three men tumbled out of it. The woman was still running, her face completely panicked now, all her joy, her zest for life, utterly extinguished by the sight of her pursuers. The woman made a good job of it. She made eighty, maybe even a hundred yards, keeping her footing well on the icy streets.

  But it was one against three, a woman against men, fit middle-age against the arrogant good health of youth. The captain caught her. The other men swung around either side of her. Panting breathlessly, the men frogmarched their captive back to the jeep.

  The British Tommies saw it all. One of them, a lance-corporal, was unable to control his feelings. He came running over to the Russians.

  ‘You bastards,’ he shouted. ‘You fucking bastards lay a hand on her and I’ll fucking—’

  But his threat evaporated into nothing. What, after all, could he do about it? The men bundled the woman into the jeep. The driver started the car and sped back, around the gate, into the Soviet sector. The British lance-corporal shouted a few more useless insults at the retreating exhaust pipe, then gave it up. He walked back to his buddies, who gave him a round of ironic applause.

  ‘Sodding bloody Ivans,’ he said and reached for a fag.

  EIGHT

  1

  ‘Last one, Knospe.’

  Misha hoisted Rosa up and let her peg the final poster to the washing line, that snaked endlessly beneath a makeshift corrugated-iron roof. Although Die Trümm
erzeitung allowed them to use their press, Misha had to supply both paper and ink. The only ink he had been able to obtain was an old pre-war batch, that took two or even three days to dry properly in the chilly air. But time didn’t matter too much. He and Willi printed three hundred posters each week and, working by night, posted them all across East Berlin, concentrating especially on U-Bahn stations, office doorways, canteens, food markets, anywhere where people congregated. Each day that passed, more and more people would see the cartoons. One day, Tonya would see them too.

  He released his grip on Rosa and let her slide to the ground.

  Hanging the posters out had made dinner late and would mean Rosa was late getting to bed. But it couldn’t be helped. Misha was simply too busy to look after everything. His cooking had become more basic. He had allowed himself to skimp on Rosa’s bedtime story, so that now, instead of the long, wild, Russian fairy stories of old, she got little more than a kiss goodnight and a promise to see her in the morning. But Rosa understood. The miraculous little girl didn’t like the slight disintegration of the family unit, but she understood that Misha had to work hard to ‘find the new mummy’. She never complained, but helped out where she could instead.

  They went indoors.

  The stove was hot. A beef and potato stew – lots of potato, a mere tint of beef – stood warming on the top. Rosa ran to wash her hands. Misha told Willi to do the same, then began to serve up. Willi had the lamp up high, and his fairy-tale painted shade threw huge images of dragons, castles and princesses across the walls.

  They were just beginning to eat, when Misha raised his hand, motioning for silence. Rosa stopped dead, her spoon hovering between bowl and mouth. There was movement audible outside. It was too late for ordinary vistors. There was no one with business at the factory. Yet there was certainly somebody there, moving around. Rosa’s eyes widened. An unreasonable hope began to hammer in Misha’s heart.

  He had always imagined that Tonya would come by day. But why should she? Perhaps the nights were easier for her to get away. Misha stood up, breathless, excited, his ribs almost cracking with the pressure of so much hope, as his brain vainly tried to persuade him to calm down.

  He went outside.

  There was somebody moving down the factory wall, under the tin roof where the Comrade Lensky cartoons were drying. The light of a torch poked here and there between the hanging pages.

  ‘Hello?’ called Misha, adding softly in Russian, ‘Kto tam? Who’s there?’

  The movement of the torch changed. There was a rustling of paper sheets. A shape emerged from the gloom. Then a man moved out into the open. He flashed his light onto his face so that Misha could see him. The man was big-built, blond, uniformed but somehow untidy with it, as though the uniform were only a lightly worn disguise. The man had taken one of the posters down and was holding it in front of him. The ink was still wet and heavy, and the paper moved stiffly like a board. Misha felt the iron clang of disappointment, and yet he couldn’t quite believe that this unexpected night-time visit was altogether unconnected with his search for Tonya. Misha stood, silently waiting.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ said the man. ‘Sorry to disturb you and all that. I’m looking for a Herr Malevich.’

  Misha shook his head, but said nothing. His new name was still a protection to him and he wasn’t keen to reveal his true identity for no reason. But the big man wasn’t put off.

  ‘Well, now, that’s just it. I expect you’re going to tell me you’re Herr Müller and I’ll bet you anything you like that you’ve got a wallet full of papers to prove it. All the same, it’s Malevich, I want to speak to. Either Malevich, or this little fellow, Kuletsky.’

  The big man held up the poster and waved at the little frozen cartoon men who crawled across it. The man came closer to the light from Misha’s front door and he was visible now, a British captain with something cheerful and ruffian-like in his expression. He looked like a man who would get things done. Misha knew without looking around that Rosa was at the front door staring out. He sensed her disappointment almost as intensely as his own.

  ‘Yes, I’m Malevich. Kuletsky too if it comes to that.’

  The Englishman grinned. ‘Splendid. My name’s Hollinger, Harry Hollinger. I’ve got some news for you, not mostly good news, I’m afraid.’

  They went inside.

  The furnishing was still very basic. That was hardly a surprise, Berlin had lost perhaps two thirds of its buildings and much of the remaining accommodation had been looted. Misha had salvaged some of the furniture, built some more, compromised on the rest. Misha himself sat on a packing case. He indicated that Hollinger was welcome to do the same. Before sitting, Hollinger fingered the glass shade on the oil lamp and set it spinning. Seeing the images spin and whirl across the walls, he grinned with pleasure. He sat down.

  ‘I’ve interrupted your meal.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Russian codes of hospitality, and German ones for that matter, insisted that guests always be offered food and drink. But the etiquette of hospitality always presumed that the hosts had spare food to offer and that the guests might need it. Misha didn’t offer. Hollinger didn’t ask. The Englishman glanced around the little family circle. He indicated the sheet of cartoons, which was already softening and unfreezing in the warmth.

  ‘Who’s the artist? You?’

  Willi nodded.

  ‘It’s good stuff. I like it. I’ll bet you don’t have a license, do you, but the good stuff never does.’ He pulled a large paper-wrapped packet from his pocket and slid it across to Misha. ‘Wanted to bring a gift. Didn’t know what to bring. Hope this comes in.’

  The packet was full of cut ham, two pounds at least. Misha took it gratefully. He gave a big slice each to Rosa and Willi, then indicated that they should go next door to their shared bedroom. The pair didn’t even try to protest and crept silently away.

  ‘You said you had news.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hollinger frowned. ‘You’re looking for a friend of yours – a lover, for God’s sake, let’s call a spade a spade, why not?’ In Hollinger’s German, that translated simply as lassen uns ein Spaten einen Spaten nennen. More or less nonsense, of course. His next words were anything but. ‘You know who I mean. Antonina Kirylovna Kornikova, born Lensky.’

  Misha nodded. ‘Kornikova!’ The air in the room was very still, very silent.

  ‘You didn’t know? That she was married, I mean?’

  ‘No. When I saw her last, she wasn’t … but I’m pleased. Her cousin, Rodyon Kornikov, was a good man. She did well. I’m pleased.’ Misha found himself repeating himself, but he thought he probably meant it. He had never wanted Tonya to stay unmarried all these years. And Rodyon was a good man, would be – have been? – a good husband. All the same, it was odd learning these things. Misha steeled himself for more.

  Hollinger smiled, to acknowledge Misha’s feelings. ‘There’s more. I’m a captain in British Military Intelligence, bit of a contradiction in terms as you’ll see. I recruited Antonina to work for us. She is a translator attached to the SMAD, in a position to see a lot of documents that were of interest to us. She worked for us because she wanted to do the right thing. Because she was scared of what might happen to Germany if her dear friends and colleagues had their way. Perhaps you know…?’

  ‘Know?’

  ‘Well, of course, there’s no way you could. She spent time in Siberia. Sentenced to ten years for some perfectly ridiculous reason. Only let out so that she could fight for her country. She lost a couple of fingers with frostbite. It was what first drew our attention to her. I’m very sorry to be the one bringing you so much difficult news.’

  ‘No, no…’ Misha shook his head. It was true. There was so much news, so much of it difficult. All the same, through all his other feelings, Misha could also feel Hollinger’s courage in coming, his courage in spilling all the information, good and bad, in such a candid way. ‘The Gulag… I had always worried about it… Things became so dangerous
, and principles were the most dangerous thing of all. Perhaps Tonya had too many to be safe. And if she married Rodyon … well, he was powerful and principled, the worst combination of all.’

  ‘Yes. The dictatorship of the proletariat, eh?’ said Hollinger softly. ‘I’ve never had a quarrel with the working classes, it’s just the dicatorship bit that’s hard to swallow. In any case… Antonina did first-class work. The best. I have the very highest respect for her. It wasn’t easy. She did remarkably well.’

  Misha noticed that Hollinger had moved from the present tense into the past. The cold air from outside seemed to have entered the room.

  ‘Recently, six days ago, that’s all, we hit a problem. Our main point of contact with Antonina was via a liaison agent in the Soviet zone, a German woman whom I trust implicitly. This woman’s apartment was raided by the NKVD. Thank God, thank God, nothing was found. This woman had become worried after a security lapse on my part and had taken steps to clear the apartment of anything even vaguely untoward. The NKVD found nothing aside from an old tin of Bournvita. At any rate, it was the drinking chocolate they grilled her about when they arrested her later. Arrested her, then released her. This woman had been giving Antonina violin lessons. That was the cover, but the lessons were perfectly real. As far as I know, the bloody Russians have no firm foundation to accuse Antonina of anything.’