‘Yes, it is, but I thought I’d get out of your hair, and go out. To the airfield, then find somewhere to stay maybe . . .’
‘There is something wrong with my hair?’
‘Sorry. I meant get out of your way.’
‘You’re not in my way. I am alone in this fortress . . . and anyway, Geoffrey told me to keep you here until you are recovered. Also, while you are here, we can talk about how to find my relatives . . . two birds and one stone. You say that?’
‘Yes. We say that.’
Then she switched to English. ‘Still you do not like me?’
I’d probably been smiling for half an hour, so she knew that her answer was in there.
‘I do not seem to have much choice. I like you.’
Back to German again. ‘Gut.’ There was a bit too much self-satisfaction in the word for my liking.
Chapter Twenty
I flipped through the pictures of her magazines, but they were in German except for Picture Post. The German mags were being produced on better paper again: printed somewhere out in the hinterland, and brought in clandestinely by the Lift crews. You could get a bundle for one down on the Kaiserplatz. It was amazing really: in a city where everyone was tightening their belts, expecting the worst but praying for the best, women still wanted to read fashion magazines. I said that to Frieda when she sought me out in the middle of the morning, with a brew of thin coffee in an expensive cup. I suspected that it was the breakfast grounds getting their second wind.
‘It is our religion,’ she explained. ‘It shows us that there is a better world out there waiting for us to join in, and that gives us hope. Pictures of women in Paris in expensive clothes, sitting in private motor cars. We look at them and hope. Hope is just like a religion. If we have no hope there will be no Berlin. No Berlin: no Germany.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you want me to stand up and hug you?’
‘Will that increase the bread ration?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Then don’t.’
This was all delivered with a voice as flat as a flounder’s, but she paused at the door, just like before, looked back and smiled as she left.
I allowed myself two telephone calls. The first was to Elaine. She knew the score because Dave had already told her, and didn’t sniffle. These women can really be amazing when something needs to be done.
‘We’ve got Ted Trask coming back on Dorothy. Mr Scroton will get him to Lübeck to link up.’ I hadn’t even known that Trask’s first name was the same as Crazy Ed’s. ‘Mr Halton has gone up to see his family.’
‘Where?’
‘The Isle of Sheppey. We’ll still need to do a letter. The Old Man will as well I expect.’
‘What kind of family did he have?’
‘Mother, father and two sisters. He was engaged to a girl who was killed in the Blitz, and never really got over that.’
‘No woman in his life then?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ The unspoken words That’s a blessing lay between us. It wasn’t actually, not for a poor lonely bastard murdered on the way to Berlin.
I shook myself. ‘What about Crazy Eddie?’
‘No relations as far as I know, but a girl at every airport. Mr Halton will probably want a funeral at one of the military cemeteries.’
‘Fine.’ It sounded inadequate and bleak even as I said it. I wondered if his aunty had actually been related, and wondered who would come. ‘Anything else I need to attend to?’
‘No, love . . .’ She must have been alone in the office if it wasn’t a Freudian slip. ‘We’re doing rather well together at the minute, you and I. Mr Halton’s very pleased with us.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Told me himself. He was looking at the profitable hours we’ve put on Dorothy since her operation, and said Charlie’s quite a find! There you are: horse’s mouth.’
‘I miss sleeping with you,’ I told her.
‘I miss you too,’ she said . . . but it wasn’t the same thing, was it?
Maggs answered the telephone at the Happy Returns; I’d had to wait an age to get through.
‘The Major’s gone down to Somerset to find some plums he wants for one of his old recipes: he’ll be back tomorrow. The kids’re still at school. They’ll be sorry they missed you.’
‘I’ll phone the boys tonight; between half six and seven, my time, if that’s all right. Don’t tell them in case I miss it. If that happens I’ll try tomorrow. How are you?’
‘My feet hurt: I’m waiting tables in the restaurant because we’re short. Jules ran off wiv that soppy girl from Chichester who used to waitress fer us – I don’t think you met her. Your friend Les came down with his wife and his boys last weekend. We sat around a fire on the shingle bank, and sang like silly buggers.’
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Bloody wonderful.’
‘I thought Jules had sailed off with Evelyn Valentine?’
‘He did, but they stuck the yacht on the Goodwins, an’ needed to be rescued. She went back to the Captain, who gave ’er a thick ear an’ then bought her another boat – the silly sod.’ No, he wasn’t a silly sod, I thought: I might have done the same myself.
‘If it helps, I have a sore foot as well. I sprained my ankle again: climbing out of an aircraft this time,’ I lied. ‘Don’t tell the boys.’
‘’ow bad?’
‘Not bad. I was very lucky. What do you want me to bring you when I come back?’
She didn’t answer immediately. I imagined her face – she always poked out just the tip of her tongue when she was thinking hard.
‘Bring yersel’, Charlie Bassett . . . that’ll do.’ Her voice had dropped an octave. Damn her!
‘Sooner than you think, Maggs. I promise.’
There wasn’t much more to say after that. I put the receiver down. It was a small room of opulent dark blues, dominated by a towering door. When I looked up there was Frieda, standing beside it.
‘Which boys?’ she asked in English. ‘I heard you say the boys twice.’
‘My boys: two boys who adopted me in the war . . . one’s a German as it happens. They live in England with a good friend when I’m away. Listening in to my telephone call wasn’t proper, you know. I shall have to do something improper to you in exchange . . . fair swap.’
‘I was not listening to you. I was waiting to use the telephone when you had finished.’
‘That’s a pity; I thought for a moment you were beginning to take an interest in me. Would you like me to leave you alone to make your telephone call?’
‘Yes please, Charlie . . .’
The odd thing was I felt as if I’d won that trick, even although, as usual, I had no idea what game was being played.
At the door I tried her game. I turned my head and grinned back at her. She was already seated at the desk leafing through a leather-bound address book, and didn’t look up. As I walked away from the other side of the door I heard her voice murmuring; persuading, possibly . . .
Tommo turned up. You could have knocked me over with a feather when Hanna brought him through.
‘How did you know where I was?’
‘Magda’s pilot . . . the English one. He told us. Aren’t you going to say it’s good to see me?’
‘It’s good to see you, Tommo. How long are you in town for?’
‘The Russian bastard asked me to do a number on you. He wants to set things right between you two. He’s got some sort of trouble and thinks you can get him out of it.’
‘I know about it, and I already agreed, but after what’s happened in the last thirty-six hours I keep asking myself, Why should I?’
‘. . . for the same reason you just let other people off the hook before?’
‘Off the hook?’ That was Frieda. She’d walked in without shoes, and neither of us had heard her.
‘This is Frieda,’ I told Tommo, and, ‘This is David Thomsett,’
I told Frieda. ‘He’s an old friend. I helped with a bit of trouble he was in last year . . . that’s what off the hook means.’
‘Like in fishing?’
‘Exactly like in fishing.’
She walked over to one of the large windows and looked out over the new vegetable patch. If we had a bad winter coming they were planting out just a little too late. She said, ‘I used to go fishing with my brother and my father before the war. Every autumn. It seems like a dream now . . .’
‘Tommo’s going to take me to somebody who might be able to help,’ I told her. ‘Don’t give up hope yet.’
I couldn’t believe it. Tommo had driven up to the front of the house in Russian Greg’s big GAZ jeep. He was driving around in his US uniform, in a Russian army vehicle, for which he had no papers. I was still chuckling to myself as we pulled away. Hanna insisted on helping me down the steps, and along through the front garden to the gate. She said, ‘You come back now . . .’
‘I will – in a few hours.’
‘Your German is getting much better.’
I thought that it hadn’t been too bad in the first place. It’s the colloquialisms I pick up on. The local phrases that people use have never failed to delight me. At the end of the road I recognized the patrol for what it really was – a checkpoint. This time it was a group of laid-back Canadians. One of them asked Tommo, ‘Got your papers, buddy?’
‘Sure: here.’ He handed over the small book with a ten-dollar bill conspicuous between its leaves. It had miraculously disappeared when he handed it back.
Then the cop asked me, ‘You too? You some kind of ambassador?’
‘No,’ I grinned. ‘I’m with one of the commercial outfits flying the Lift.’ I gave him my papers, which included my discharge book. The last officer to sign it had added that I was brave and showed initiative, but then, he’d never flown or served with me so he didn’t bloody know the half of it.
Tommo offered them some gum, which they pocketed, and they waved us on. He asked me, ‘That’s some place you’re staying at. How come you always come up smelling of roses?’
‘Because I’m a clean-living, God-fearing son of the Empire.’
‘An’ I’m Adlai Stevenson . . .’
We were bowling along Veltenstrasse. It had once been a wide tree-lined avenue. Bombing had reduced the trees to stumps, and had smashed a lot of the houses. Those still standing were coping with a family in every room. It reminded me of a street in London I’d seen the year before. Dirty kids turned to stare at us as we rolled past. Some of the tree stumps were missing; I wondered if that was a sign of replanting, and things getting back to normal. I mentioned it to Tommo, who laughed mirthlessly.
‘Don’t be dumb, Charlie. They’re digging them out for the wood; even the roots. What else do you think they’ll burn this winter if this shit keeps going?’
He put his arm through mine as we walked into the Leihhaus. It wasn’t to help me, because I didn’t need him. It was to make sure I didn’t scarper. My stick got in the way. Tommo trod on the toes of my good foot, and I cursed him. The place was busier than usual for the time of day, mainly REME soldiers already having a party – sooner or later the MPs were going to get seriously pissed off about the Leihhaus. Russian Greg sat alone at one of the small round tables. Everyone in the place was drinking tall glass mugs of beer: draught beer. That was new. I pulled up a chair. So did Tommo. He asked me, ‘How bad did you smash up your leg?’
‘Not bad, Tommo. Just the ankle. If I keep it bound tight I’ll be able to throw the stick away in a few days. Thanks for asking.’
He waved his cigar and the smoke made S shapes in the air.
‘Don’t get sentimental about it: I was just establishing how useful you still were.’
‘You didn’t rush over here to see me on account of my getting hurt then?’
‘Greg asked me. He wants me to broker an armistice between you two. It’s interfering with our business.’
‘What is?’
‘Greg’s worrying about his sister, and not concentrating on the work in hand.’
‘Which is?’
‘Making top dollar.’
Marthe came over and put a foaming litre glass jug of beer in front of me. I said Thanks, and smiled. She smiled back. My sister used to smile at me like that. What did that comedian use to say again? Jus’ like that! I knew immediately that she had decided whatever the future held for her, I didn’t have a central role in it. Russian Greg still hadn’t spoken. In fact he hadn’t even looked at me. I turned my attention to him, and used the word he’d taught me – even if I couldn’t spell it.
‘Prreevet, Greg.’ It was supposed to sound like hello in Russki.
He smiled. It was almost like relief. ‘Hello, English.’
‘You fired at my aircraft. You killed two of my men . . . you even knew one of them: he drank here sometimes.’
‘Not me. Some Russian did that.’
‘Aren’t you Russian?’
‘No: I’m Georgian.’
‘Isn’t that the same?’
‘No. Is Australia also England?’
‘No, you know it’s not.’
‘Is the same. Georgia is a different country, though Russians don’t think so.’
‘Isn’t Stalin a Georgian?’ Tommo asked.
‘Is not the same.’ Greg looked around slowly before adding, ‘He’s a mad Georgian. Very dangerous for the rest of us.’ It was almost the same old Greg. He gazed around, and stared down everyone who met his eye. The only one to hold out was a big Yorkshire corporal. The air crackled between them until Greg suddenly let out his bellow of a laugh, and shouted at Marthe behind the bar, ‘Give him a drink.’
She did, and the Yorkshireman raised his jug slowly to Greg before he sipped it.
‘OK,’ I told Greg. ‘Go back to the beginning. Why did you force down my other Dakota, and kidnap the crew for days?’
‘Didn’t. Was some other Russians.’
‘You forget the liquorice in the tyres: that was yours.’
‘I can explain.’
‘Will I believe you?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
I suppose that was a step in the right direction. I waved to Marthe, and she brought over three more beers. The beer was really rather good. I filled a pipe and lit it. The cool, sweet smoke always calmed me. I said to Greg, ‘Try me . . .’
‘There is a Russian intelligence officer named Spartacus . . .’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe you . . .’
‘I do.’ That was Tommo. ‘Ever since the revolution their intelligence officers have used fancy secret names; it’s almost impossible to find out their real ones. All the Commies in Spain had funny names . . .’
‘Were you in Spain?’
Tommo rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Mebbe . . .’
I tried Greg again, ‘OK. Sorry I spoke. Spartacus . . . ?’
‘’s very important. Very influential. After the war he shipped German technology back to Russia. That’s his speciality.’
‘OK . . .’
‘He thinks you got a death ray.’
Pin-drop time. Tommo must have heard it all before because he didn’t say anything. I waited for the overture before I replied. ‘Did he read too many science-fiction comics when he was a boy? Marvelman . . . that sort of thing? He thinks the RAF has a death ray?’
‘No, Charlie: not the RAF. You. Some reports from panicky pilots about nearly being brought down by red-painted transport planes some weeks ago. Maybe some nosy GI seen something in one of your planes, an’ talked about it where he shouldn’t. Maybe some strange radio noise been heard. I don’t know . . .’ I got the sense that he was treading a fine line, and telling me all that he could without ending up dangling from a piano wire.
‘It’s insane: fiction. Where would I get one if it existed?’
Greg shrugged. Moody. ‘Spartacus is insane. Everyone knows that.’
&nbs
p; ‘When did he tell you this?’
‘He didn’t tell me, Charlie. I’m too scared to meet him. I called in a favour from some other guy, an’ he’s prob’ly shitting himself right now for telling me.’
‘So they forced down the Pig, ripped it apart, and tortured my engineer?’
‘Sorry, Charlie, what pig? You lose me.’
‘It’s what we call the aircraft: the Pink Pig.’
‘OK. But the engineer was something different.’
It was Tommo who came in again. First he waved his cigar to calm me down. Perhaps he thought he could hypnotize me with the smoke shapes in the air. They reminded me of Alice when she was really teed off at someone.
‘Maybe engineer would know about death rays. Pilots wouldn’t. Pilots got shit for brains.’ That was probably the first time I heard those words in that order. I thought he was being a bit hard on the profession.
‘Fuck the lot of you!’ I told him.
‘That’s a very reasonable attitude to take, Charlie: I should stick with it if I was you.’ He said that in such a reasonable tone that you wanted to believe him. I took a couple of deep draughts of beer. I had let my pipe go out, so I relit it. That made me think of Grace, who had given it to me in ’44. It was like having a hidden supporter in the room.
‘That doesn’t explain away the liquorice, does it?’
‘I got it for him,’ Tommo told me. ‘The problem of moving things about these days is that the Commies – sorry, Greg – have shut up their side of Berlin tighter than a duck’s wad. You can’t get anything into Soviet Berlin from their side without going through a ring of steel. They don’t want their soldiers fratting with the Berliners any more: they don’t want them having goods to exchange . . . it’s something to do with stabilizing the economy now they ain’t printing American money and spending it against us.’
‘That’s interesting, Tommo, but what’s it got to do with us?’ ‘. . . on the other hand, getting something through the border across Berlin is still a piece of piss . . . it’s because they smashed it up so bad – the geography is still impossible to police.’
The Hidden War Page 29
