by Pierre Frei
There were crowds of people among the ruins around Potsdamer Platz. Berlin's biggest black market was held here daily. There was nothing you couldn't find being bartered or sold. Gold wedding rings, mink coats and genuine Meissen china changed hands for nylons, coffee, chocolate. American cigarettes, in cartons of ten packets each, fetched a high price. A Leica cost twenty-five cartons of cigarettes. Single packets were more profitable, as Ben knew. The preferred currency was the Allied mark, banknotes which the occupying powers had issued for their troops, although they had soon found their way into the general currency. The old German Reichsmark was hardly worth the paper it was printed on.
Ben was in no hurry. He had to find the right taker. That man in the stained uniform jacket, for instance. Ben sized him up: just back from a POW camp, wouldn't know the current tricks of the trade yet. He walked past close to him, murmuring, 'Yankee fags?'
Then he stopped by a broken lamppost and waited. The man followed him. 'You got some?'
'Lucky Strikes. Three hundred Allimarks.' Ben showed him the packet held in the hollow of his hand. The man reached for it. Ben hung on. 'The money first,' he demanded. Allimarks, like I said.'
The man took Ben's wrist and raised the packet to his nose. He sniffed briefly and let Ben's hand fall again. 'Pelikan glue. You don't get rid of that almond smell so easily. Take care you don't get a thrashing, kid.' Ben made off. Next time he'd use UHU. The acetone dispersed at once.
'Got any Yanks?' asked a young girl. In spite of the heat she was wearing a quilted Russian jacket over her thin summer dress, and white socks below bare legs. She was fourteen at the most, but her pale face beneath the red hair reflected the experience of centuries. Ben showed her the packet. 'Over there.' The girl went ahead, into a ruined building. Ben followed, but stayed on his guard in case she had a boyfriend lurking there.
Weeds grew in the yard of the ruin. A rat scuttled away among chunks of rubble. The girl stopped, turned, and raised her skirt. The pubic hair on her little mount of Venus was bright red in the sun. 'Want to fuck? Or shall I give you a blow job? You can have ten minutes for four Yankee fags.' Ben silently shook his head.
Outside the ruins of the Wertheim department store a thin woman was hanging about in a threadbare but once elegant tailored suit, her bony cheeks slightly rouged. Her eyes greedily devoured the packet Ben showed her.
'Three hundred and fifty Allimarks,' he said, opening negotiations.
'Too much.'
'Three hundred.'
She opened her handbag, took out a couple of notes and offered the to him with nicotine-stained fingers. 'I'll give you two hundred and fifty.' She spoke educated, standard German and was obviously repelled by the bargaining.
'Two hundred and fifty, OK.' Ben took the money, gave her the packet and made his getaway. On the steps down to the U-Bahn he looked round. The woman had torn the packet open. Its contents fluttered to the ground. Disappointed, she picked up one of the snippets of paper and read the New Testament words. She laughed soundlessly. Her laughter turned to a dry cough.
Ben had found an old gentlemen's magazine in his grandparents' attic, with a picture of a man with a moustache in the English style and a firm jaw wearing an immaculate. Prince of Wales check, double-breasted suit. He kept the picture in his hiding place behind one of the rafters, along with a notebook with a black oilcloth cover where he recorded the sums he had made from his fake packets of Chesterfield, Lucky Strike and Philip Morris cigarettes. He always took the money straight to Heidi's father, Rodel the master tailor in Ithweg. Today's two hundred and fifty marks were another step on his way to becoming an arbiter of elegance. The trouble was, he couldn't let himself be seen in Potsdamer Platz too often, so the instalments were mounting up slowly. As things stood at present, he wouldn't get the shoes and suit for less than fifteen thousand marks, so Ben was trying to think of other sources of income.
Perhaps he could make something out of Mr Brubaker. Mr Brubaker was an American, and for that very reason, in Ben's opinion, rather nutty. Ben had known him since he'd found him hopelessly lost, and showed him the way to the Harnack House. Where he came from, Clarence P. Brubaker was what they called a 'nice guy'. He was no great intellectual luminary, but his father owned the Hackensack Herald, which supported the Democrats and thus the new President Harry S. Truman. The newspaper proprietor sometimes played piano duets with Truman.
Brubaker senior had pulled strings to ensure that his son and heir was spared the dangers of service in the armed forces. Instead, Clarence became a war reporter, which sounded more adventurous than it was. Daddy took care that his offspring was assigned to Allied headquarters, which like most headquarters in the military history of modern times was situated well behind the lines, so that while the generals waged war, the war itself would not disturb them.
Clarence P. Brubaker arrived in Berlin with the American army of occupation, intending to file reports from the post-war front line. A cousin on his mother's side was something quite high up in the military government. On his say-so, Brubaker was quartered in a requisitioned villa behind US headquarters and thus outside the prohibited zone. Accommodation of this quality was usually reserved for high-ranking officers with families.
The house was well furnished and in the past had belonged to one Dr Isaak, who discreetly helped the ladies of Berlin society out of certain difficulties and sent them steep bills for his services. An Aryan' colleague called Kruger made sure that Isaak was sent to a camp when Hitler came to power, and took over his villa and his practice for peanuts. He sent the wives of high-up Nazi functionaries equally hefty bills until his racket was finally busted. He too had been providing ladies with abortions.
The two doctors met again in Buchenwald. They both survived the war, and were liberated by American troops. Isaak emigrated to Palestine, where he was hanged by the British as an active member of the underground Hagannah movement. Kruger, as a victim of the Nazis, received a good sum of money in compensation and became a respected member of Dr Adenauer's Christian Democrat party.
Neither Ben nor Mr Brubaker knew about the intertwined fates of the two doctors, nor would they have cared. Ben wanted his suit. Brubaker wanted Nazis.
'Nazis,' said Brubaker. 'I want to meet Nazis. Do you know any?'
'What for?' asked Ben cautiously.
'I won't give anyone away. I just want a first-hand story. I'll pay well.'
'How well?' Ben asked, sucking one of the Cokes he had taken from his host's fridge through a straw.
Brubaker did not answer because someone was knocking at the kitchen door. He opened it. 'Hello, Curt, come on in.'
Ben looked at the newcomer with interest. Another American who might turn out to be profitable. He'd have to test the ground first, of course. The man had thin fair hair, a round, rosy face, and pale-blue eyes. His uniform showed that he was a US civilian.
'This is Ben,' Brubaker introduced him. 'Say hello to Mr Chalford, Ben.'
'Hi.' Ben went on sucking with concentration.
Curtis Chalford lived in the villa next door. 'Could I borrow some coffee? I was too late for the PX.'
'Sure. Would you like a drink, Curt?' Brubaker offered politely.
'No thanks, Clarence. Goodbye, my boy.' Chalford left with a couple of sachets of Nescafe.
'Would you like a coffee too?' Ben shook his head. He was perfectly happy with his Coke. 'I'll make you a sandwich.' Mr Brubaker might not be very bright, but he was a kind-hearted soul.
'OK,' Ben generously agreed. 'So what will you pay?'
A couple of cartons of cigarettes for a genuine Nazi with a story to tell.'
'All right, I'll keep my ears open,' promised Ben. He was wondering feverishly how he could come up with a Nazi in these lousy times, when everyone was so keen never to have been one.
Little Hajo Konig came to his aid. He had been discharged from hospital now, and the bandaged stump of his right arm lay in a sling. His greatest grief was that he couldn't go swimming. The wound had
n't healed well enough yet. 'But they send me to school,' he said gloomily.
Before his accident, Hajo had made a discovery in the loft above the false ceiling at home. A dagger of honour with the eagle and swastika, a brown uniform and a whole lot of other stuff.' The uniform and its accessories had belonged to Tietge, the Nazi local group leader, who'd taken his own life.
Ben did some very quick thinking. He must have this valuable find. 'It's strictly forbidden, you know,' he told the younger boy. 'If they find that stuff at your place you'll all end up in jail.' He let this sword of Damocles hover in the air for a little while before making his generous offer: 'I'll get rid of it all for you for ten Yankee cigarette ends.'
'Suppose they catch you, though?'
'Oh, well, you know my old man's with the cops.'
One Sunday in September the Konig parents went to visit relations. Jutta Weber was working at the Club as usual. Herr Brandenburg was out too. It seemed like the perfect opportunity. 'I only found six,' Hajo apologized, holding out the cigarette ends on the flat of his hand. 'I'11 get you the rest next week.'
Ben put the cigarette ends carelessly in his trouser pocket. 'Wait for me at your place.' He ran home and fetched an empty potato sack from the shed at the end of the garden.
Hajo let him in. 'Up there.' He pointed to the loft, which was above the bathroom door. They carried the kitchen table into the corridor and put a chair on it. Ben climbed up, and wriggled into the loft on his stomach.
'Oh wow!' he murmured, catching sight of these treasures of the Thousand-Year Reich. 'Can you hold the sack open?' he asked out loud. Hajo managed it with his teeth and his unharmed left hand. One by one the dagger, uniform garments, Party insignia, a cap, and a Party booklet with a once-coveted low membership number went into the potato sack. 'That could get you at least two years in jail,' Ben prophesied darkly.
'Just get rid of it,' begged the little boy. 'I'll find you the rest of the cigarette ends next week, I promise.'
Ben hid the sack with his booty in the garden shed, having first removed a round swastika badge with a gilt edge. He took this to Mr Brubaker, who was brooding over a news story.
'Look, this belongs to a Nazi. He'll sell it for a carton of Yank fags because he can't wear it right now, he says.'
Brubaker took a carton of Camels from a cupboard. 'Where is the man? Can I talk to him?'
'He doesn't want to see anyone, he's afraid they'll put him behind bars because he was the Fuhrer's right-hand man.'
'Hitler's right-hand man?' Clarence P Brubaker was delighted.
Or maybe his left-hand man, I'm not quite sure.'
'Tell him I'm prepared to meet him secretly. No one will hear about it.'
'I'll see what I can do,' Ben promised, and he put the carton of Camels under his shirt and left. Suddenly he was in a great hurry.
Meanwhile. Brubaker opened his Remington portable and, with a blissful expression on his face, began hammering out his story on the typewriter: 'Hitler's right-hand man goes underground in Berlin . . .' The folks back home would tear the Hackensack Herald from each other's hands. His colleagues on other papers would be green with envy. But that was only the beginning of a path that would lead inevitably to the Pulitzer Prize. Daddy would be proud of him.
On his way home, Ben thought of the fairy-tale of the donkey spewing gold at both ends. The animal was visibly assuming the features of Clarence P Brubaker.
Captain Ashburner braked sharply outside the terraced house in Riemeister Strasse and unfolded his long legs from the jeep. He walked through the front garden and pressed the bell, to no avail: the power was off again. He knocked on the door. Inge Dietrich opened it.
'John Ashburner,' he introduced himself.
'I know your name. I'm Inge Dietrich.'
'How do you do, ma'am? Is the inspector in?'
'He's just come home. Please come in. Mr Ashburner.'
'Thank you, ma'am.' The captain took of his cap and put it. very correctly, under his left arm.
'My husband is on the veranda. Just go through the living room.'
Klaus Dietrich was wearing shorts and a polo shirt. resting in a deckchair and looking relaxed. He had taken off his troublesome prosthesis and put his leg up. He glanced up from his newspaper in surprise. 'Captain Ashburner?'
Ashburner, taken aback, glanced at the amputated limb. 'I didn't know about that.'
'Oh, just ignore it. I do.' The inspector hauled himself up by the table with practised ease.
'I went to your office, but you'd left. I apologize for disturbing you at home, but that's all I'm planning to apologize for.'
'What's the matter, Captain?'
A phone call from the city commandant's office, that's what's the matter,' Ashburner said angrily. Asking why I am preventing you from questioning Private Dennis Morgan and why, furthermore, I am withholding an item of evidence from you.'
'Well, aren't you?'
Ashburner took the scrap of olive-green fabric from his pocket and handed it to the inspector. 'I've had this examined. It's certainly from an officer's trench coat. However, such coats are traded on the black market, so it could have been worn by a German. You can question Private Morgan in my office any time. Are you happy now?'
'Not until we've caught the murderer. I'm sorry I had to turn to the commandant's office. Your Sergeant Donovan was blocking all our attempts to investigate, and we couldn't reach you. Captain, this case may be taking an unexpected turn. I need a permit to visit the Brandenburg penitentiary. The NKVD is holding former CID Chief Superintendent Wilhelm Schluter there, for mass executions in Ukraine. I want to question him about the murder of a woman in Berlin before the war. There could be parallels.'
Ashburner made a couple of notes. Inge Dietrich joined them. 'You're welcome to stay and eat with us, Mr Ashburner.'
'Potato soup a la Uncle Tom,' said Dr Hellbich sarcastically, appearing behind her. 'You grate a couple of raw potatoes into boiling water, add salt and a pinch of spice if available, and there you are. Guaranteed to be an entirely new experience for our overseas guest. Do you by any chance have a cigarette?'
Dietrich was embarrassed. 'My father-in-law - Captain Ashburner,' he introduced them.
'Pleased to meet you. I'm sorry, sir, I don't smoke. Thank you for the invitation, ma'am, but I have a dinner date.' Ashburner turned to Dietrich. 'With an acquaintance from the Soviet commandant's HQ, who may be able to help us.'
'I'll show you out.' Dietrich hopped to the door on one leg: it didn't seem to bother him at all. Ashburner stopped for a moment in the living room, looking at the framed photograph on the sideboard. It showed a laughing Klaus Dietrich with the epaulettes of a colonel. The Knight's Cross with oak leaves stood out brightly from the black uniform of the Panzer troops.
And I didn't know that either,' said Ashburner, impressed, as he swung himself up into his jeep.
Ashburner quickly fetched the statements and photographs relating to the two murder cases from his office and put them in the jeep. Major Berkov had surprised him by phoning. 'Do you know the "Seagull" in Luisenstrasse? Through the Brandenburg Gate, left into Neue Wilhelmstrasse and across the Spree.'
'I don't know it, but I'll find it,' Ashburner promised.
'Shall we say eight?'
'Eight it is.' Ashburner was pleased that Berkov had called. He liked the cultivated Russian, so different from his earlier assumptions about their Red allies. He drove from Uncle Tom through the Grunewald to Halensee and the Kurfiirstendamm, which was in the British sector. The tower of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church with its top broken off rose into the sky creating a bizarre spectacle. Tauentzienstrasse was full of rubble and ruins too. There were people clearing up everywhere. Women with grey faces under grey headscarves were knocking the remains of mortar off bricks. Elderly men passed them from hand to hand, conveying them to horsedrawn carts or trucks running on wood gas. It was amazing, what these half-starved Germans were doing.
He thought of the inspecto
r and his family. Their life must be damn hard. On the other hand, hadn't the Germans brought it on themselves? Who had begun that crazy war, and who had lost it? Or were the Dietrichs just victims? Wouldn't it have been the same for him and Ethel and everyone else in Venice if Hitler had won the war? The idea of watching Ethel grating raw potatoes into boiling water at the stove amused him. He decided to tell her the story sometime, just to see her reaction. He braked sharply as he came to a shell crater overgrown with weeds in the middle of the street and drove around it.
He went along the overpass and then left towards Potsdamer Platz, where the Soviet-occupied sector of the city began, past the bustling black market in the square to the ruins of the German Reichstag, which he gathered had been a kind of parliament, and through the Brandenburg Gate. A red flag with the hammer and sickle was flying above it. Chunks of plaster crunched under his tyres as he stopped in Luisenstrasse.
The Berlin Artists' Club had been housed in what was once Prince Billow's town palace. Soviet cultural officers had named it after Chekhov's The Seagull, an image of which adorned the curtain of the Moscow artists' theatre. But Berlin's artists came less for the culture than because, thanks to the artistically minded Russians, there was plenty to eat here, and no disapproving waiter snipping bits off your ration cards.
Maxim Petrovich Berkov was waiting for his guest at a table half-hidden behind pot plants. 'Good evening, John. How are you?'
'I'm always feeling fine after working hours.'
And your beautiful girlfriend?'
Ashburner grinned. 'I'm not sure if it was the white BMW or its driver that impressed her most.'
'I'd be happy to take the lady for a drive.'
'I'd sooner you didn't. The glorious Red Army has made enough conquests. Maxim Petrovich, can we talk freely here?'
