Nights in Berlin

by Janice Law

  We sat and drank in the now quiet tavern, then strolled down an overgrown road toward the river dotted, that afternoon, with rowing shells and sailboats. We stopped in a little glade out of sight of the track. The grass had dried after the rain, and the sun through the trees dappled Oskar’s pale, strong body with shade. I would take a hike anytime if he was at the end of it. He liked lying nude in the sun, and afterward we put on our pants and walked shirtless into a little meadow. Some people were sunbathing, more or less naked, and others were doing gymnastics, turning cartwheels and backflips and trying to walk on their hands.

  We sat down where we could see the water, and Oskar lit a cigarette.

  “You’re right,” I said. “The Grünewald is lovely.” Of course, I meant present company, but he did make the otherwise hostile greenery tolerable.

  “You are very nice,” he said. Oskar was well educated, and I think that my ungrammatical and profane German maybe offended him, because he preferred to speak in English. “It is too bad you have no taste for the military life.”

  “I saw enough of military life,” I said, forgetting momentarily that Francis Wood’s father would not necessarily have been a cavalry officer and a Boer War vet. He might have been something quite nice—maybe a sworn pacifist with no blood lust whatsoever. “My father was very big on fitness and readiness.”

  “It’s a good thing. Prussia grew from blood and iron, and what Germany needs is a rebuilt Reichswehr.”

  “Not for a while, though,” I said. “Not with the treaty.”

  “No,” he said, and his face darkened.

  I admitted that they had gotten the worst of things, but they conveniently forgot their crazy Kaiser and attacking Belgium and their treaty with Russia.

  “But that will change,” he continued in his correct and careful English. “The youth of Germany are preparing. We will rebuild our country. We will have a revolution.”

  “I thought you already had one.”

  “A milk-and-water deal,” he said. “We have other plans.”

  I didn’t take this too seriously, in spite of Belinda and Uncle Lastings and the embassy people. Every bar had its resident politicians and, although it might just have been my uncertain German, it seemed that every other chap had links to one of the conspiracies of the moment.

  I preferred to lie in the sun and admire Oskar, who even smoked elegantly. I believe I said something along those lines, because he looked at me quite seriously, head up and wreathed in smoke. “It is too bad that this will all soon be over,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There will be no place for you in the new Germany to come.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect that you’d be recruiting Irishmen,” I said, although I guessed that was not what he meant. To be honest, I was a bit shocked.

  “I mean this,” he said, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

  “You can’t change your nature with a uniform. You may get your revolution, but you’ll still be the same. With the same desires.”

  “You’re dead wrong there,” Oskar said coldly. “I’ll be a soldier in the new Germany and a different person altogether.”

  I heard Nan in my ear say, The leopard cannot change its spots. That was one old saw I thought better not to mention, because Oskar, clever as he was, struck me as naive and a bit desperate. “Soldiers,” I said, thinking of Uncle Lastings and Belinda, too, “are sometimes queer. Guns don’t care and horses don’t, either.”

  “That is the British army,” he said in a superior way, and I think that I might have been forced into defending that deeply hostile organization if we hadn’t heard the thump of the drum and our returning comrades.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun was still as bright on the Havel, the mood of the gang as cheerful, a last beer at the tavern as good, but the day was spoiled for me. I decided to leave at the first stop in Berlin and have no more to do with Oskar or his friends, a ridiculous bunch of boy scouts. Residents of liberated Berlin, no less! I was silent and gloomy all the way back to the city, and Oskar picked up on that, because although I left the train without saying good-bye, he jumped off after me.

  “Francis, wait!”

  “Fuck you, Oskar.”

  He followed when I ran down the stairs and caught my arm. “You are misunderstanding me,” he said. “You are not native here and you are owed a warning.”

  “Thanks a lot. But while you’re playing soldier and dreaming up a greater Germany, I want to live now. As I am.”

  His face looked sad. “We are not playing. We are dead earnest. I want to help my country, and for that I must be a soldier.”

  “Sure, be a soldier. Back to the trenches! Fine, I’m all for it. But you really want to be a normal soldier, don’t you? Whatever normal is. Do you think you can change your ways with a uniform?” I was angry; I saw how unhappy he was, standing there handsome, clever, and educated. Why do we make ourselves miserable, I wondered, and in the emotion of the moment, I said, “Listen, I have a soldier uncle, front line, decorated from here to there. He sleeps with boys and never gives it a thought. Now that’s a good soldier in my book.”

  Oskar’s face changed slightly. “We are different,” he said. “You English …”

  If I hadn’t been at sixes and sevens between lust and anger, I’d have noticed the change in his expression. Instead, I told him to remember that I was really Irish and that if he was going to start in about the Prussian army and the sacred soil of the Fatherland again, I’d say auf Wiedersehen. I headed for where I thought a tram stop might be and, mind in a whirl, I almost ran into a couple of men who stepped from a Lokal carrying heavy walking sticks. They had caps pulled low over their eyes and matching brown shirts under their jackets.

  “Verzeihung,” I muttered. As I moved to go past, I heard Oskar shout, “Run, Francis!”

  I looked back. His face was white, and his hands were in fists. One of the men blocked my path with his cudgel-size stick, and his companion leaped toward Oskar with his weapon raised. “Traitors to the Fatherland!” the man shouted and brought the stick down full force. Oscar dodged to one side but was struck on his right shoulder. He let out a shriek, and his assailant backhanded the weapon against his thigh.

  “Hey!” I cried and, without thinking, snatched the cane that was blocking my path. “We are not armed!”

  This appeal to good sportsmanship must have surprised the fighter, because I got a good grip on his weapon. He was taller and heavier, but I held on until he jerked me across the sidewalk and brought me to one knee. Without shaking me off, he could not go to his companion’s assistance, which might be needed, for in desperation, Oskar had picked up one of the municipal litter cans, a sturdy iron basket that he swung before his face as a shield. I heard a thump and a bang as the cane landed on the basket, then a pop as it got caught between the iron bands and snapped.

  Instantly, Oskar’s assailant dropped the cane and lunged at him with his fists, only to be struck by the heavy can and dropped onto the sidewalk. Angered, his big friend wrenched the cane from my hands and turned to deal with Oskar. I grabbed for his legs, then struggled to get onto his back and put my hands around his neck. We lurched back and forth across the sidewalk before I was dumped onto the pavement along with the cane, which rolled into the gutter.

  Perhaps Oskar thought that we had reached a stalemate or, perhaps, with his injured shoulder, the can was too heavy for him to hold, because he had already dropped it when the second fighter closed in on him. This one was clearly confident with his fists, and though Oskar was quick, I could see that he was not nearly as skillful. Hampered by his shoulder and the blow to his thigh, he could not evade the quick flurry of blows that swelled one eye and opened his lip. The fighter grabbed the front of his shirt and seemed determined to beat him to the ground.

  I scrambled to my feet, avoided the man still groa
ning on the pavement, and snatched the shattered end of his cane. Remembering my success with the bayonet, I thrust it as hard as I could into the fighter’s back. Despite a heavy leather jacket, he gave a grunt and released Oskar.

  “Run, Francis!” Oskar took off, half-stumbling, blood streaming from his face.

  This time I didn’t hesitate, especially since other brown-shirted figures were emerging from the bar. Despite his injuries, Oskar was soon ahead of me, and though he kept looking back and calling encouragement, I was falling behind when we saw a tram approaching. A last dash over the tracks to the platform and into the car left the fastest of our pursuers thumping their fists against the closing door and sending us off with a stream of obscenities. The tram slid away, and, relieved, I took a huge breath and felt my lungs contract. The car went black and red before I could manage some air, and I was gasping so much that Oskar had to pay our fares.

  We must have looked like a pair of street toughs, and, thinking back, it was a surprise we were allowed on. But then people were used to beggars and mutilated vets and brawls in the streets. Especially around election time, political differences tended to be settled with fists. I propped myself up against a pole in the tram and looked back. Far down the line, a group of men in brown shirts were clustered on the platform. Our attackers.

  As soon as I could speak, I asked, “Who were they?”

  Oskar shook his head. He’d wiped off the worst of the blood with his handkerchief, but his mouth was cut, one side of his face was swollen, and he’d have a black eye for sure. He kept massaging his injured leg and trying to flex his bruised shoulder. “SA. The Brownshirts.”

  “Bolshies?”

  “No Reds in this area. They’re Röhm’s men.” When he could see this meant nothing, he added, “NSDAP. The Nazis. Ever since Goebbels, their new gauleiter, arrived, they treat anyone with a different opinion as the enemy. They’re mostly drunks out for a fight.”

  “I can see that.” I felt as if I’d been wrestling cement. But Goebbels … Wasn’t that Uncle Lastings’s supposed pigeon? And NSDAP—that, too, rang a bell. “Didn’t they try to overthrow the government?”

  “Right. The Hitlerputsch in ’23. They wanted to take over Bavaria. They are a political outfit now.”

  Not entirely, I thought, if they are buying weapons through my uncle. I sincerely hoped that Lastings had cheated them. And that he was steering well clear of their street fighters.

  “I would have been badly hurt without you, Francis. I am sincerely in your debt.”

  Something about his careful, almost schoolboy English touched me. “You told me to run.” He would have taken them on alone and kept me safe. He was a prince, and I patted his uninjured shoulder. “I think we are even,” I said. I meant that the unpleasantness of the afternoon was erased, forgotten. That I could ignore his odd politics. That I still thought he was marvelous.

  “But you have deceived me,” he said and gave me a look that I probably should have considered more carefully. “You have had some military training.” And he mimed a bayonet thrust.

  “Strictly observation.” This was not the time to brag of my unsuspected skill. “I told you I’ve seen enough soldiering. And soldiers.”

  “That may be so, but it saved your life,” he said, “and maybe mine.”

  We got out at the next stop. Oskar had stiffened during the ride, and he hobbled off painfully. It was clear that he needed some care and cleaning up, but Miss Fallowfield’s was out of the question. While she would doubtless be interested in my outing and its conclusion, I didn’t need to be told that her house was verboten. I said that my landlady was peculiar and asked if he couldn’t go home.

  “I can’t go home in this state,” he said, and added that his parents did not approve of his life.

  I understood about that! “The stork sometimes bollocks up its deliveries,” I said.

  Oskar gave a bitter laugh and suggested his Lokal. We hopped a tram on another line to the bar. When we limped inside, his arm around my shoulders, blood on his shirt, and his face swollen, he was greeted like a returning warrior, and some of his heroic glow was cast on yours truly.

  Most of the gang from the Grünewald outing were present, including Sigi, who sniggered in the corner and whispered about Dolly. I could ignore him, for while Oskar was washed and bandaged and his bruises treated, I had glasses of beer and schnapps on the house. If Sigi was envious or jealous or suspicious, the rest were enthusiastic. I had helped the popular Oskar on a day of combat, so I was thumped on the back and almost forgiven for being English. The whole evening became so jolly that I put aside Oskar’s warning. If the thought crossed my mind that I had probably been indiscreet, I refused to blame myself.

  My whole predicament was the fault of the security people, and when Miss Fallowfield asked me how things had gone, I gave her an edited version. Given that the right-wing fighters were at odds with one another as well as with the Reds, I believed that Oskar’s friends had enough to occupy their minds. I told myself that it was unlikely anyone would be suspicious of Dolly. I reminded myself of that at least once every night, for the atmosphere at the Eldorado had grown poisonous.

  Sabine was now the Queen of the Dance Floor, but like everyone else, she was on edge, which made me doubt that she’d had anything to do with Belinda’s death. We were all so suspicious and nervous that we took to saying “keep safe” instead of “good night” when we left. That was one thing. The other was that my trip with the sports group had attached Sabine to me more firmly than ever. Dolly really had to get a move on to avoid sharing taxis, because Sabine liked to bore me with her conquests of the evening and with Sigi’s plans for military preparedness and general fitness.

  The rides were so tiresome, I suspected that Sabine just wanted to keep an eye on me. She also liked to mention that I had gone out on the evening Belinda was killed and, rather inconsistently, to commiserate with me for “losing my special friend.” I really wanted to tell both Sabine and Sigi to fuck off, but that would have been stupid. Miss Fallowfield was right; I was safest hiding in plain sight as the jolly English hatcheck girl with the delightfully profane and fractured German.

  So long as Dolly was firmly in everyone’s mind, I didn’t believe that Francis Wood, her alter ego, would be connected with that other Francis, the accessory to murder who had a spy for an uncle and who, against all expectations and very long odds, had not only escaped an attack, but injured a former member of the Freikorps. That’s what I told myself, but the real reason I did not relay my suspicions to Miss Fallowfield, Mac, and Harold was that I liked Oskar better than anyone else I’d met in Berlin. Now that we were “brothers in the struggle” and a lot of other things I didn’t take seriously, it seemed a good idea to keep seeing him.

  Besides, I certainly agreed with Uncle Lastings that it was foolish to let anxiety stand in the way of pleasure. Beyond pretending that my German was worse than it really was, I took no other precautions, and I saw Oskar just about every day. Quite often at night, I’d slip out to buy Martha her “pick-me-up” and take a few more minutes off the clock with him. There were no more street fights, no more alarms, no more bodies in the alley. Except for Dolly’s damn heeled shoes, I was enjoying Berlin mostly at His Majesty’s government’s expense. How many people could say that?

  So a week later, when Oskar said “We’re going to the island this weekend. Call in sick at the club,” I was seriously tempted.

  “Somewhere in the Grünewald?” I asked.

  “No, up north. It’s a Baltic island. Very wild and beautiful. Deserted beaches, woods.” He raised a flirtatious eyebrow. His face had just about healed, and the dark bruises had faded to a faint greenish tinge.

  I regretted that I couldn’t afford such a long train ride.

  “My treat,” said Oskar. “We’re assembling at the Forester at nine o’clock. It’s a Lokal near the station.”

&nb
sp; “Why don’t I meet you at the train?” I felt I saw quite enough of Sigi in his role as Queen of the Eldorado, and I didn’t share the gang’s enthusiasm for marching through the streets.

  “If we get the tickets ahead of time, we get a group discount,” Oskar said. “Do come. It’ll be nice to have someone intelligent to talk to.”

  How could I resist?

  Dear Nan,

  I am off to see Rügen Island on the wild Baltic coast with some friends. Don’t be surprised if I come home speaking fluent German, as these are all boys my own age. The sea air should be good for my asthma, too, so you don’t have to worry about me. But do keep sending all mail to Francis Wood. I’ll explain about that when I see you next. Hope you’ve gotten a job—and a nice one, too. Mine is all right, but I feel I need a little vacation. …

  The next morning, I dropped the letter in the mail on the way out and left with a light heart. I’d decided that when I returned, I was going to tell Miss Fallowfield that I was done with Dolly and the Eldorado, that one way or another I intended to go home. You have to stand up for yourself, Francis, Nan said in my ear, and as I headed for the train, I thought that’s just what I would do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I skipped the Forester and went straight to the train station. Running around in the woods with Oskar’s friends was one thing. A public parade with would-be soldiers, especially German would-be soldiers, was quite another. Without being overly staunch about king and country, I have my standards. I found the platform for trains to Stralsund, the closest mainland stop, bought a wurst sandwich, and sat down to wait. About 9:30, the gang arrived, all togged out in gray-green shirts, lederhosen, and hiking boots.

  “Francis!” Oskar called, all smiles. “We thought you left us!”

  “I got delayed,” I said, throwing my arm across his shoulders. “I thought I might miss you if I went to the Lokal.”