It was a real dive, he thought with distaste, looking round. The band was third-rate and he couldn’t for the life of him see the attraction of the place. The patrons were all civilians except for a noisy group of American servicemen lolling round one table, clearly the worse for drink. The few women present were dressed like whores. He could see no other British uniform apart from his own. ‘I’ll have a beer, please.’
‘They have jolly good schnapps. Have one as a chaser.’
He suppressed his irritation. ‘Just beer, thank you.’
Fingers were snapped at a waiter, the order given in German, Turkish cigarettes offered. ‘Sorry, I forgot you prefer your own.’ The gold lighter appeared. ‘Beautiful girl, Lili, isn’t she?’
He lit his own cigarette. ‘Yes, she’s nice-looking.’
‘The Berlin girls have a lot to recommend them, actually, and they’ve all had a miserable time of it. The Nazis, the round-the-clock Allied bombing, the Red Army and now the Occupying Forces. Growing up and living in these frightful post-war conditions. Half-starved, no pretty clothes, no fun. You can’t blame them for exchanging their favours for some extra food and nice things.’
He wondered if Lili Leicht had done just that with Nico Kocharian; the thought was repulsive. ‘How did you come across that family?’
‘I ran into brother Dirk. He was flogging watches in the Alexander Platz. Quite a character, isn’t he? Of course, Lili hates him doing that. She’s terrified the Russians will catch him and send him off to some labour camp. More than likely, one of these fine days, I’d say. He sails pretty close to the wind. Anyway, I bought this watch off him – a jolly decent bargain, actually – and we got chatting and he took me back to their apartment. I could see what a tough time they were having. I do what I can to help.’
‘What does the girl do?’
‘Lili works as a trummerfrau, clearing away rubble. You’ll have seen the women out on the streets, no doubt. Terrible job, but it’s all the work most of them can find and they do get given some food.’
It explained her hands. ‘Can’t they get men to do it?’
‘My dear Michael, there aren’t many able-bodied men left in Berlin. They’ve all been killed or are still POWs or too old and doddery to work, like Grandpa Leicht. Poor Lily should be doing something much better, of course. She’s well educated and her English and French are excellent, but there’s no chance of it at the moment. No Government, no Civil Service, not much industry or business, hardly any shops, almost nothing.’
‘The young boy, Rudi, seems in pretty poor shape.’
‘He is. There was a frightful polio epidemic in Berlin last year and he caught it. Hundreds of children died but he was one of the lucky ones to survive. Thanks to Lili. She’s a devoted sister and she’d do anything for him. The kids here are all undernourished, of course. Rickets and retarded growth and riddled with TB. You’re something of a hero to him, being an RAF pilot, did you notice? Rather ironic, isn’t it?’
The waiter squeezed his way between tables, tray aloft, and set the drinks down: a beer with a tall head of foam and a glass of schnapps. Nico said, ‘I ordered Bernauer Schwarzbier for you. It’s made on this side of the city. The stuff they brew in west Berlin now is undrinkable.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’
The beer was about the best he’d ever tasted, which was some consolation. ‘This place seems very popular.’
‘They’ve come to see Helene. It’s a very good act. Almost as good as the great Marlene.’
‘Dietrich, you mean?’
‘Who else? She is Berlin. They haven’t forgiven her for deserting them, of course, but she still belongs.’
The curtains jerked back on their wire and a glaring white spotlight was switched on to illuminate the stage. A roll of drums announced a juggler dressed and made up like a clown, who proceeded to juggle plates and spoons and knives and forks and balance them on his forehead. Harrison watched, bored. After that some character, even more unsavoury than the one who had let them in, came onto the stage and told what were presumably funny jokes for an interminable length of time. When he finally went off and the laughter and clapping had died down, Harrison finished his beer and stubbed out his cigarette. He stood up.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll get going now.’
‘Hold on a moment, old chap, Helene’s about to come on. You mustn’t miss her.’
The spotlight, which had been switched off, went on again. There was a murmur of excitement round the cellar and some eager handclaps. After another prolonged roll of drums, a figure emerged from somewhere in the shadows at the back of the stage and stepped forward into the bright light. Long chorus girl’s legs in black net stockings, suspenders, high heels, top hat, blond hair, heavy-lidded sultry eyes, plucked eyebrows, scarlet Cupid’s bow lips; complete silence fell. Harrison sat down again slowly. The voice, when she started, was a perfect imitation of the real Dietrich – low and husky and not so much singing, as speaking the words.
Ich bin von Kopf his Fuss auf Liebe eingestellt . . .
He had seen The Blue Angel film years ago, before the war, when Dietrich had sung the song in English, ‘Falling in Love Again’, and this imitator was good enough to give him the same frisson he had felt then, aged about seventeen. It could have been Marlene herself. He listened, captivated. To his ears, German usually sounded harsh and rather ugly, but not when it was delivered like this. As he joined in the thunderous applause at the end, Nico Kocharian leaned towards him. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it, Michael, old chap.’
The performer sang several more German songs which were unknown to him and, finally, ‘Lili Marlene’. For this she left the stage and moved among the tables. When she reached the group of Americans she paused and switched suddenly to English for their benefit, circling their table slowly.
The Americans were lapping it up, grinning and clapping and the audience were laughing. She’s mocking them, Harrison thought, watching her sway from one Yank to the next, picking up their drinks, sipping from each glass, stroking their hair, draping herself across their laps. Playing with them. Showing them up – though they don’t realize it. Her route back to the stage took her by Harrison’s chair. She spotted his uniform and, again, she stopped and caressed his cheek with her hand; he could feel the sharpness of her long red fingernails. Up close, he saw how heavy her make-up was: the patches of rouge on her cheeks, the lipstick thick and glistening, the false eyelashes jutting like long black spikes. ‘Royal Air Force.’ She bent to hiss the words low and her eyes gleamed at him; he read amused malice in their depths.
After another number and two encores she finally left the stage to roars and whistles and the spotlight was switched off again.
‘Pretty good, eh, Michael, didn’t you think?’
‘Yes, she was very clever.’
‘You didn’t realize?’
‘Realize what?’
‘Helene is a bloke, old chap. I happen to know him rather well. He’s very amusing. Amazing legs, hasn’t he? Far better than most women. You’re looking quite shocked.’
He was annoyed to find himself reddening. Christ, how could he not have known! ‘I’m not in the least shocked.’
‘The Germans love all sorts of variations. Helene is very tame stuff. I could take you to some places that would probably make your hair stand on end. Every perversion known to man.’
He got to his feet again. ‘I can well believe it. And now, I really must get back.’
‘If you insist . . . I’ll take you to the Gate. You’ll be able to pick up one of your free taxis there.’
For two pins he would have told the chap to shove off – one way and another he’d had more than enough of his company – but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to remember the way back to the British sector and it would certainly be foolish to go wandering about Berlin at night. It started to rain as they walked along dark, deserted streets. Harrison thought he had never been in a more ghastly city. All the evil, all the hatred and te
rror and cruelty and suffering and misery seemed to lurk in every corner, to cling to every stone and every brick. He wondered if Berlin could ever be cleansed of its hideous past. They turned into the long, wide street that he recognized as the Unter den Linden and to his relief he saw the dark mass of the Brandenburg Gate ahead. Just beyond it lay the British sector.
‘We must meet up again, Michael,’ Kocharian said.
‘I doubt that will be possible. I’m kept pretty busy.’
‘Yes, the Soviets will make sure of that. They’ll be tying you up in knots if you don’t watch out. You have to remember that they didn’t go to English public schools and that they think quite differently. I gave you my card, didn’t I? Keep it safe, just in case you need anything.’
He didn’t answer. He had no intention of doing so, or of ever seeing the chap again if he could help it.
‘I owe you a good turn from our schooldays, you see.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘You rescued me from Conway and Turner and that lot. They were indulging in their idea of a little amusing sport, sticking my head down the lavatory and pulling the chain . . . You came along and put a stop to it. Sent them all packing. Surely you haven’t forgotten?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He’d always cracked down hard on any bullying but he couldn’t recall that particular episode. Unfortunately, the Armenian had been pretty unpopular.
‘Well, it was nothing much to you, I suppose, but it meant a hell of a lot to me and I don’t forget things like that. So, if I can ever do anything for you, you have only to ask. By the way, how’s that charming elder sister of yours? I remember her coming to Speech Days. All of us chaps fancied her.’
He hated even to speak of it: ‘She was killed in the Blitz. With her two sons.’
‘I say, old chap, I’m frightfully sorry. How ghastly! Simply tragic. Your parents must have been awfully cut up.’
So was I, he thought. So was I.
He picked up one of the Volkswagon Beetle taxis in the British sector and tried to shrug off his black mood during the ride out to Gatow. The transvestite singer seemed to him to epitomize the cruel vileness of Berlin and he had an unpleasant feeling that all the way along the line, from the seedy café to the Leichts’ apartment to Der Kellar, he had been made a fool of.
Four
Harrison put his encounter with Nico Kocharian and the Leichts out of his mind. There was plenty to occupy him on the station. The number of Dakotas ferrying in supplies had been increased and so had the ways in which the Russians were making a nuisance of themselves. There were more stoppages on the only railway line into Berlin, with freight wagons being detached because their labels were supposedly incorrect. On the canals, barges loaded with perishable goods were held up for days while their papers were processed at a snail’s pace by the Russian authorities.
Meanwhile, Intelligence reports warned of more Soviet troops patrolling the zone frontiers.
In the Officers’ Mess, Tubby Hill shook his head gloomily. ‘They’ve got us by the short and curlies, Michael, and they know it. There’s not a thing we can do.’
‘We can bring in a great deal more stuff by air.’
‘So you said before, dear boy, and again, I say, nowhere near enough. The new runway’s not even finished yet and we can barely handle the present traffic. And the Yanks are no better off. It’s a lost cause.’
‘It’s not like you to give up without a fight, Tubby. You were all for hanging on like grim death.’
‘I’m getting too old for these war games, that’s the truth. I’m ready to settle for a quiet life, pottering about the garden, spraying the roses and doing The Times crossword.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Wait and see. I’ll be first in the queue when they start ferrying us out.’
‘You really think we should leave the Berliners to their fate? Let the Russians just walk in and take over?’
‘Three years ago you were busy bombing the city out of existence, dear boy, and with gusto. They deserved everything they got – those were your very words, I believe.’
‘And I meant them. But this isn’t the same situation at all, Tubby. We won the war and with it the right to be here. If we don’t stand up to the Russians now, where will it end? They won’t just stop at taking Berlin, they’ll want the rest of Germany. And then what next? You said so yourself. The Iron Curtain will be on our doorstep. We’ve got to stay.’
‘I know, but it’s easier said than done. Picture the scene if they choose to blockade us completely. No food, no fuel, no raw materials, no nothing coming into the western sectors. That means nothing for our German civilians either. Less than nothing. No work, no pay, no hope of survival let alone recovery . . . back to square one. The Berliners are probably going to end up begging us on their bended knees to get the hell out.’
‘I think they have more guts than that. Look what they’ve already survived.’
‘First time I’ve heard you say anything nice about them, Michael.’ Tubby sighed deeply. ‘Of course we have to stay – that’s the bore of it. We’ve got to get the Jerries back on their feet again somehow and make sense out of the whole damned mess.’
Harrison had tried, unsuccessfully, to get his watch mended and found himself thinking again about the Luftwaffe pilot’s chronograph. Three hundred and fifty Player’s was a reasonable deal and he had actually liked the look of it rather a lot. The Nazi emblem on the back was an added attraction. It amused him – in the same way, he supposed, that a naval friend of his was tickled at possessing a U-boat captain’s Zeiss binoculars. A trophy of war. He debated what to do. If he called on the Leichts again he could take the boy something. He’d seemed a decent kid and he must have had a pretty rough time of it. Maybe he should take some chocolate, too. The street had been Albrecht Strasse. There were few signs in Berlin and one ruined street looked much like another, but he could get the taxi driver to find it for him.
Another week passed before he made the trip into the city in the late afternoon. The driver dropped him at the bottom of the cobbled street and he walked down it in the direction of the old flak tower. He could see it clearly now: a massive square block of reinforced concrete, fifty or sixty feet high with a flat roof where the anti-aircraft guns would have been mounted, and rows of slit windows in its walls like some medieval castle. It looked almost unmarked – impervious to the shells and bombs that had destroyed practically everything around it – and would probably be standing there for hundreds of years to come.
He found the door in the wall that led into the courtyard and the double door in the corner with the snarling wolves’ heads. It was the boy, Rudi, who answered his tug on the bell pull and his face instantly lit up in a smile.
‘I do not think we see you again, sir. Please to come in.’ He followed him into the big room. As before, the grandfather was fast asleep in the armchair, chin on his chest. There was a buzzing from a cluster of large flies on one of the window sills. ‘Lili is at work, but she comes back very soon. Please to sit.’
He refused the offer of one of the wonky chairs at the table and took out the pictures of various RAF planes that he had cut out of a magazine. They were nothing special but the kid seemed thrilled to bits.
‘Thank you very much, sir. Wellington, Halifax, Lysander . . . I have not these. They will be new for my collection.’
He handed over the two bars of Fry’s chocolate. ‘It’s English, I’m afraid. You probably won’t find it as good as German or Swiss.’
‘I do not know. I cannot remember how that was. But I have tried American once and it was very nice. Thank you, sir. I give these to my sister. We . . . I forget the word in English. To each take some.’
‘Share.’
‘Ya, share. We all share. Always we share with everything.’
The grandfather stirred and woke up, muttering. The boy showed him the pictu
res and the chocolate bars, speaking to him excitedly in German. The old man nodded vaguely and glanced in his direction without recognition or interest. Just as well, Harrison thought. He might not share his grandson’s misplaced enthusiasm for the RAF. There seemed no point in waiting around and he was about to take his leave when the sister came back. He could tell by her face that she was equally surprised to see him. She, too, was shown the photographs ahd the chocolate by her brother.
‘It is very kind of you, Squadron Leader. Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘We did not expect to see you ever again. Is it the watch that you have come about?’
He said awkwardly, ‘Actually, I did think I might take another look at it – if your brother still has it.’
‘I am not sure, but I think so – yes. He was very certain that you would want it in the end. But he is not here and I do not know when he will return. He does not tell me.’
She took off her jacket and the flowered cotton scarf she was wearing, tied up turban-wise round her head in the way that factory girls in England did. He thought how attractive her hairstyle was – soft and simple and with none of the tortured curling and crimping that usually went on with women. Her skirt and blouse, he noticed, were smeared with dust and dirt; the thought of her having to do such hard manual labour dismayed him.
He said, ‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t that important.’
‘If he has it, I will ask him to keep it for you, if you wish. You can come back again?’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. It might not be for a while, though.’
‘He will keep it.’
He picked up his cap from the table. ‘Well, I’ll be getting along, then.’
She accompanied him politely to the outer door. ‘Thank you again for the chocolate, Squadron Leader Harrison. And for the pictures for Rudi.’
The Pathfinder Page 6
