They turned into a narrow, cobbled street where a few buildings were apparently inhabited. Upper storeys were wrecked and open to the weather but he could see lights burning in ground-floor windows and down in the basements. At the far end of the street an old flak tower rose black and menacing into the skies. Odd to think that he must have been on the receiving end of those guns. The Armenian beckoned him through a door in a wall which led into a courtyard flanked on three sides by the burnt-out shell of a red-brick apartment building. Here again, a small part of it, in one corner, appeared habitable. A short flight of steps led to an elaborately panelled double door with a carved wolf’s head, lips drawn back in a snarl, in the centre panel of each door. The brownish paint, faded and peeling, was peppered with shrapnel marks. A dark blue and white enamel plaque on the lintel bore the number 8. Nico Kocharian tugged at an iron bell pull.
While they waited, Harrison looked round at the courtyard. It might have been rather a pleasant place once. He could see the remains of stone-embrasured windows with iron balconies and there was a stone fountain and basin in the centre and urns that had probably held flowers. Were there any flowers now in Berlin? None that he could remember seeing. No living colour. Nothing to lift the spirits and cheer the heart. All grey, grey, grey. Devastation and desolation. He thought of the bombs cascading down, of the blazing inferno he’d witnessed from thousands of feet above. Oft have I struck those that I never saw and struck them dead. The Shakespeare line learned long ago for a school performance of Henry VI seemed apt. One side of the double door had opened and he turned.
The girl standing there was small and slightly built – very different from his mental image of the typical German woman – and her hair was dark, not blond, and held back with combs behind her ears. No Gretchen plaits. Kocharian was addressing her in rapid German. His name and rank were spoken and she glanced at him. He sensed her hostility. Nico Kocharian said to him. ‘This is Fräulein Leicht. She speaks very good English.’
She held out her hand, but reluctantly. ‘How do you do, Squadron Leader. I am pleased to meet you.’
She clearly wasn’t. ‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry we’re intruding like this.’ Her hand felt unexpectedly rough.
‘You don’t mind us calling on you, do you Lili?’ Kocharian was all smiles. ‘Is Dirk at home?’
‘No. Did you want to see him?’ She seemed wary.
‘If possible. Do you think he’ll turn up soon?’
‘I’m not sure. I never know.’
‘May we come in?’
She nodded and stood back to let them in, obviously unwilling. Harrison couldn’t blame her. They went from a small, dark hallway into a large room which, like the courtyard, must have seen much better days. Bare electric bulbs gave a dim and grim light, showing strips of lath and plaster dangling like stalactites from a high ceiling. Planks of wood had been nailed across one of the four large windows, a threadbare carpet across another. The furniture consisted of a single armchair, wooden beer crates, upended and containing books, and a large old-fashioned couch with a screen standing beside it. There was also a dining table, one leg broken and supported on bricks, and four odd chairs. In another part of the room, he noticed an enamel-topped work table and, beside that, a pot-bellied stove, much the same as those found in every Nissen hut in wartime England. A hole for the flue pipe had been clumsily punched through the outside wall. There was a smell about the place that repelled him. An odour of decay that he would always associate with Berlin. More than ever, he regretted letting Kocharian drag him there.
He could see the girl better now. She wore a jumper and skirt, both darned in several places with thread that did not match. Her stockings were darned too, and she wore clog-like shoes. ‘My grandfather is sleeping,’ she said, indicating an old man sunk in the depths of the armchair, chin on chest, dribble sliding from the corner of his mouth. ‘I will not disturb him. This is my brother, Rudi.’ A skinny, white-faced boy of about eight or nine, sitting at the table, stood up politely. Harrison nodded to him and the boy grinned. ‘Royal Air Force. RAF. I am most interested, sir. What aeroplane do you fly?’
‘I don’t actually fly any at the moment.’
‘But you have the wings.’ The boy tapped his own chest. His hand was almost skeletal – bone with a transparent covering of skin. ‘That means that you are a pilot. In the war, perhaps? You fly Liberators?’
‘Liberators are American.’
‘Ach, I am stupid. Lancasters, I mean.’
Harrison hesitated. He said crisply, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I flew Lancasters.’
The boy looked delighted. ‘I have pictures of these bombers.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s plane mad,’ Nico Kocharian said, amused. ‘I should have warned you.’ The German hat had been removed. Underneath his black hair was glassy with oil.
‘Ya, I make a collection of pictures. Especially I like the Messerschmitt 109 and the Spitfire. You have flown a Spitfire?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘Only the bombers?’
He was spared from answering by the old man, who woke up with a start and struggled to his feet. He tottered across the room and began fiddling with a wireless up on a high shelf, turning the tuning wheel fretfully to and fro and muttering to himself. The set crackled and shrieked and whined and suddenly a stream of Russian blasted their ears. The girl went over and reached up to switch it off. He saw then how workworn her hand was, with broken nails and cuts and bruises. She said something quietly to the old man in German and led him back to his chair.
‘My grandfather forgets sometimes that the war is over. Towards the end we listened to the BBC broadcasts. He is trying to find the station.’
The old man nodded eagerly. ‘BBC. We hear English news. From London.’
Kocharian said in a low voice, ‘They took a hell of a risk. It was a crime to listen to foreign broadcasts. The Gestapo punished anyone they caught at it.’
I’ll bet they did, he thought. ‘Where was that Russian coming from?’
‘Radio Berlin. It’s controlled by the Russians. They broadcast from the Rundfunkhaus in the British sector.’
‘What was it all about?’
Nico smiled. ‘They were putting their point of view to the general population.’
‘Propaganda, you mean. Against us.’
‘Rather amusing considering their location.’
He didn’t find it remotely amusing.
The girl said to him, ‘I am sorry but we have nothing to offer you to eat or drink.’
He could feel himself flushing. The whole thing was crazy and extremely embarrassing. These people didn’t want to meet him any more than he had wanted to meet them – except for the boy, who was gazing at him as though he was some kind of hero. Kocharian was watching him, too – with sly enjoyment, he fancied – and he was suddenly furious at being put in the situation. He turned to the girl.
‘We are inconveniencing you, Fräulein Leicht. We should be leaving. I have to be getting back in any case.’ He moved firmly towards the door. But as he reached it, it opened and a youth entered the room. He saw at once that it was Kocharian’s Artful Dodger.
He was small and slightly built, dressed in a shabby raincoat about two sizes too big for him and he wore it tightly belted with the collar turned up around his ears, like some film gangster. He stopped, his eyes widening. ‘The Royal Air Force visits us again.’ An exaggerated bow. ‘Good evening, sir. Welcome to what you have left of our home.’
Kocharian said, ‘This is Dirk – the one I was telling you about.’
‘What were you telling, Nico? Everything good, I hope.’
‘Squadron Leader Harrison needs a watch, Dirk. His old one has broken. What have you got to offer?’
‘Actually, I don’t need one at all,’ Harrison said curtly. ‘And I really must be going.’
The youth blocked his path. ‘Please stay for a moment more, sir. I may have just the wa
tch for you. All work very well. I make sure of that.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘And, of course, for you to buy is food for us.’
He was trapped. Common decency obliged him to stay and probably pay through the nose for some dubious watch that he didn’t want in the least. His service Omega had seen him through the war and he was sentimentally attached to it. He had every intention of getting it mended and keeping it. He waited, fuming inwardly, while the youth left the room. The girl said, ‘Please do not feel you must buy anything, Squadron Leader. Please leave, if you wish.’
She seemed sincere, discomfited even, but he did not trust her either. The younger brother started asking him more questions. What plane did he like best? Which was the fastest? How long did it take to learn to fly? What were the medals he was wearing? He answered them all with as good a grace as he could muster. The kid looked more than undernourished: he looked ill, as though there was something chronically wrong with him, and he kept coughing.
After a while, his brother came back with a battered leather case, slightly larger than an attaché case. He put it on the table, snapped open the clasps and lifted the lid with a flourish. Inside, arranged on a piece of worn and rather dirty velvet, lay half a dozen watches – wrist and pocket. ‘I deal most in ones for the wrist,’ the youth told him. ‘The Americans want those. They like best Swiss. The Russians like those too, but most of all they like the American watches with a Mickey Mouse on the face. Such as this.’ He picked one out and held it up by the strap. ‘See the hands are Mickey Mouse’s hands with the big gloves. It’s very funny, no?’
Personally, Harrison thought it crude and childish but he said nothing. He didn’t care for any of them.
‘You do not like these?’
‘Not particularly, I’m afraid.’
‘Please, I may see your old watch?’ Reluctantly, Harrison held out his wrist. ‘Ah, Omega . . . one of the best. I am very surprised that it is working badly. All the RAF were given these, it is so?’
‘Only pilots and navigators.’
‘So, when you came to bomb us you knew the time very well?’ The youth laughed as he said it. His sister said sharply, ‘You should not joke about such things, Dirk.’
‘Oh, I do not joke, Lili. It was most important for the bombers to know the exact time. That is why the RAF gave them all very good watches. Isn’t that so, sir?’
‘There was no point in issuing dud ones,’ he said stiffly.
The boy piped up. ‘And before each raid everybody made their watches to the same time. I am right? You start them all together. How do you say this?’
‘Synchronized them. I’m sure your Luftwaffe did exactly the same.’
‘But not with Omegas, I think.’ His brother was delving into a side pocket of the attaché case. He pulled out another watch. ‘With German ones like this. This is my best one. A Hanhart Fliegerchronograph. Hanhart are an old watchmakers in Schwennigen. For more than seventy years they make them. Very famous in Germany. A very good name.’ He laid the watch reverently on the table and beckoned. ‘Please come to look, sir. This is not a watch for anybody – just for pilots. Made specially for the Luftwaffe. It is the most precise watch in the world. It gives all the time information you need. See the way the bezel can revolve, with the two buttons so well placed, and the leather strap with the strong rivets. This certainly belonged once to a Luftwaffe pilot. Look, the strap is a little worn from being on his wrist . . .’
He had all the slick salesman patter and, in spite of himself, Harrison was intrigued. He went closer and picked up the Hanhart watch and examined it. Stop/start and reset buttons. Steel casing with a ridged bezel, black face, white numbers and hands, two smaller face dials – one for seconds, the other for minutes, stitched and riveted black leather strap. It looked a superb piece of craftsmanship.
The young German hovered at his elbow. ‘You see this red mark on the bezel? You can turn it forward however many minutes you want so that you can easily see when they have passed. And this button here is to press to start the big hand for seconds. Press again and it stops. The bottom button is to reset to zero.’
‘Yes, I know how it works.’
‘And if you turn it over, sir, you will see that it has the Nazi insignia. Very interesting.’ Harrison looked at the back of the watch. Engraved in the steel was the Nazi eagle, wings outstretched, clutching a swastika in its claws. ‘You like it, sir?’
He said guardedly, ‘It’s rather unusual. Where did you get it?’
‘Oh, from someone who got it from someone . . . It is the first Hanhart I find. It is most special, I think. You would like to buy it?’
Harrison hesitated. ‘Maybe.’
‘You would not be sorry.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Four hundred Player’s. The tins of fifty are best.’
He put the watch back on the table. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Three hundred and fifty.’
Kocharian said, ‘It’s a wonderful watch. Must have cost a packet new.’
The Artful Dodger picked it up and displayed it by its strap. ‘If you want, I keep it for you while you think. One week.’
They were all waiting; watching him. ‘All right.’ He looked at his own watch, forgetting that it had stopped. ‘Now, I really must be going.’
Kocharian was following him. ‘I’ll come along with you, old chap. Show you the way. You don’t want to get lost in the Russian sector after dark.’
Harrison shook hands politely with the grandfather, who stared up at him with vacant eyes and mumbled something in German. The boy, Rudi, caught him up near the door. He was dressed in shorts and his bare legs looked pathetically wasted. ‘I hope very much you will come again, sir. If you have pictures of British aeroplanes, please bring them as well – for my collection.’
He shook hands with the girl. She was as slight as an elf, much shorter than himself, and her rough hand was as small as a child’s. He noticed that she had a scar on her forehead above her left eye. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Fräulein Leicht.’
‘Goodbye, Squadron Leader.’ She didn’t invite him to return.
The elder brother had put away the watches and snapped the case shut. He called after him confidently, ‘We see you again, sir.’
The old gas lamps were lit but set so far apart that they left long stretches of darkness. Harrison switched on his torch. ‘What’s the name of this street?’
‘Albrecht Strasse. Thinking of coming back for the watch?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘It was a good deal.’
‘I dare say.’
‘Interesting that it belonged to some Luftwaffe pilot.’
‘If it ever did.’
‘Oh, I think so. Dirk can spin some stories but I’m sure that one was perfectly true. Hanhart did make watches for the Luftwaffe. The eagle and swastika on the back was rather a nice touch, I thought. Tell me, what did you think of the family?’
‘They seemed pleasant enough. How is it that they speak such good English?’
‘School, of course. And the father was a university professor and spent some years at Cambridge. Apparently he used to speak it all the time with them. I never actually met him myself. It’s a bit of a sad story. Father, mother and grandmother killed during the war. The grandfather has gone dotty, as you saw. Lili has kept the rest of them together and they’ve survived somehow. They’ve had to fend for themselves.’
‘In that terrible place?’
‘It was their home. They’ve nowhere else to go. People live like that all over Berlin. I say, old chap, how about a nightcap? There’s a club I know just round the corner where you can get almost any booze you want – illegal, of course, but who cares? It’s rather like Berlin used to be before the war.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Getting to be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud these days, aren’t you, Michael? I suppose that’s service life in peacetime. You forget what the real outside world’s like.’
<
br /> He said, goaded, ‘We deal with the outside world all the time, as a matter of fact.’
‘But from a distance now, isn’t that so? Like the Americans. You live cocooned in camps and quarters, eat your own kind of food, drink your own kind of drink and play in nice, safe service clubs with your own people. That’s no fun.’
‘I’m not sure I share your idea of fun.’
‘You don’t know till you try it, old chap. What’s the saying? When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well, now you’re in Berlin and the club is down these very steps. Goes by the name of Der Kellar. You’d never find it if you didn’t know it was there – which is the general idea, of course. Take a quick dekko? Just for a moment.’
The Armenian was already halfway down a flight of stone steps and for the second time that evening, Harrison found himself going where he hadn’t wanted to go in the very least. The steps led down to the basement level of a building that looked a virtual ruin. His torch showed a door that had been crudely mended with long pieces of wood, nailed criss-cross from top to bottom so that it looked more like a portcullis. In response to a knock, it opened and they went inside.
The club lived up, or down, to its name – a low-ceilinged, brick-walled, stone-floored cellar with supporting archways and lit mainly by candlelight. Tables and chairs had been salvaged from somewhere and a crude stage erected with curtaining strung on wire and drawn across the front. A three-piece band was playing beside the stage: some melancholy German tune. The atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke, and the place was packed with customers. The unsavoury-looking man who had opened the door showed them to a small table at the very back of the room, against the brick wall. ‘He says this is the only one free,’ Kocharian said. ‘We’re lucky to get it.’ It was obvious from the way he had been greeted that he was well known there and he kept waving and smiling and calling out in German. ‘What’ll you have, Michael? Name your poison. They’ve got pretty well everything.’
The Pathfinder Page 5
