*
Spencer awoke late to a cold but sunny Sunday morning in Hampstead. He finished his packing, made himself a light meal, ordered a taxi for half-past six that evening and went out to buy the newspapers. He walked past Christchurch and into Hampstead Square. The inchoate rage of the past weeks had changed to a cold, controlled anger and now he was icy calm. He seemed to be two people, the first walking through the morning sunshine; the second watching the first. A woman tourist was taking photographs of the Queen Anne houses. He went on down to the newspaper seller at the Underground station, bought the papers, then walked up Heath Street, turned up the Hollybush steps and went into the tiny bar of the Hollybush itself. He ordered a pint of bitter and took it outside. It was warm in the sun and several others had brought their pints out too. It was the sort of convivial Sunday morning that he and Sue had enjoyed. He felt the rage build up again and fought to regain the earlier control. What he was about to do needed the chill of uninvolvement.
He sipped his bitter and read the headlines and a feeling of being watched came over him. He looked up but the only new arrival was the lady tourist, taking pictures of the bijou houses off the Hollybush steps and then of the groups of drinkers outside the pub itself. Spencer and the rest were eventually going to find themselves in a stranger’s snap album. He wondered where he’d end up; she looked American and seemed to be using the camera with a certain ease. Being the owner of two expensive cameras he looked at hers with mild interest. It was an East German Praktica. She took a few more pictures, then turned and went down the steps.
He had a second pint, left the Hollybush and walked into Cannon Place, but on impulse decided not to go into his house. Instead he walked on and came to the Heath. It was alive with families taking the chance of sunshine. He walked up towards Kenwood, wishing that the time would pass, wishing that he could get going, and reached the great house just as the doors were opened to the public. Again he felt the sensation that someone was watching him. He stopped, turned, and heard the click of the shutter even before he saw her. This time she spoke. ‘May I speak with you?’ she said. The accent was German.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Mr Spencer.’
He looked at her more closely. She was in her mid-thirties, thin, but well-proportioned, with black hair cut in a fringe and an attractive angular face. She wore a blue suede coat over long, slender legs. There was something fresh about her. It was the same quality that Sue had had. Perhaps it was the colouring. For a second it almost seemed to him she was Sue. Again he fought to regain control; again he almost lost.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
A queue was forming at the door and he moved away to the lawn.
‘My name is Lilo Essenbach.’
‘You’ve been taking pictures of me?’
‘I hope you are not offended.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m from Der Spiegel,’ she said, ‘I want to do a story on you.’
‘Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘In case you said no.’
‘You followed me this morning.’
‘You live here, I wanted pictures against your own background.’
‘I don’t like being spied on.’
‘I wasn’t spying. I was open. You saw me in the street and at the bar. I did not hide.’
‘Why do you want to do a story?’
‘You can ask that?’
‘I don’t see journalists.’ He thought of the days and especially the nights when the telephone had scarcely stopped ringing; when the street outside was thick with them.
She stopped and turned towards him and he saw there was anxiety in her dark brown eyes. ‘It will be a good story. I do not want to make trouble for you. You will like the story.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But why not?’
‘There have been enough stories written.’
‘I’ve come a long way to see you.’
There was something familiar about the phrase, someone else had used it recently, but out of the mass of people who had talked to him he could not isolate the individual.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘Anyway, I’m going away. You must excuse me.’
The anxiety had given way to anger. ‘If I write a story and do not speak with you it will be a bad story.’
‘Write what you damn well please,’ he said, and walked swiftly away.
*
Liverpool Street Station at seven o’clock on a Sunday evening was almost deserted. It was a depressing, dirty place, and only a handful of people were standing at the barrier to the boat train. He had booked through to Berlin, but instead of taking his seat in the first-class compartment, he went into the buffet car and ordered a meal. It was called ‘Traveller’s Fayre’, a bowl of tinned soup, a grey sirloin steak that appeared to have come straight from the deep freeze to a microwave oven, and packet cheese. By the time he was on his second cup of coffee the train was pulling into Harwich.
The Konigin Wilhelmina was at Parkstone Quay and there was no body search or luggage inspection as they went aboard. This was precisely why he had decided to travel by train rather than by air. He had a cabin to himself and he stood in it for a moment wondering whether he should hide the pistol. But he was wearing a heavy sheepskin jacket, itself so bulky that the outline of the gun did not show. He went on deck and stood in the cold and looked at the misty lights of Harwich and watched the passengers as they moved about the upstairs bars and lounges. There were very few and he recognized no one. He had a drink at the bar and soon after the ship sailed he went to his bunk.
This was a time he always hated: being alone in the bowels of a ship again. He lay rigidly, listening to the thump-thump of the screw churning in the water, feeling the vibrations of the shaft, and his thoughts went back to the convoy and the shattering roar of the exploding torpedoes.
This was something Bruno had always mentioned, the fact that Spencer had been torpedoed. He had told his mother and Lange that first day. Spencer remembered being taken to the house in Charlottenburg to meet Astley and Richards, and again it was almost the first thing that Bruno had said. It was as though he gained some sort of reflected glory. But neither Astley nor Richards had been much impressed. They were an unbalanced, dangerous couple.
There had been several houses for the Free Corps volunteers at that time in Berlin. One he knew was in Grunewald, but he had never been there, only to the house in Charlottenburg. Bruno had taken him there one evening at the end of his first week in Berlin, ‘to meet some of the chaps’. Bruno brought out phrases like that in English but often now when he was at home he spoke German to his mother and Lange; Spencer was picking it up rapidly.
‘This is where they wanted to send you,’ Bruno said, as they made their way through the rubble-choked streets. There had been a raid the previous evening and wires still hung down on to the pavements and small fires smouldered in some of the buildings. They passed a small lake glinting in the starlight. ‘But the house is not ready yet.’
This was a lie. Although only two floors were habitable there were at least three vacant bedrooms, any one of which Spencer could have had. It was only later he realized that Mrs Gutmann was being paid by the German Foreign Office to keep him.
If he had been expecting a welcome from his fellow-countrymen he was disappointed. Both Astley and Richards viewed him with suspicion, which wasn’t helped by Bruno, who immediately started telling them how Spencer had been torpedoed.
The house was luxurious after the camp: iron bedsteads in the rooms, carpets on the floors and in the passages. There was also a common-room with several easy chairs, a newspaper and magazine rack, and two writing tables. Around the walls were large pictures of Hitler, Mussolini and Goering.
Richards was a small man with a pale skin and blue-black jowl. He had been a motor mechanic in peace-time and seemed to have absorbed some of the grime and grease of the garage. He was nervous and highly strung and his movements were jerky. He offered
no greeting when Spencer was brought into the room and he stopped with his pen poised above the paper and said, ‘Have you studied National Socialism?* which he pronounced ‘socialismus*.
‘No,’ Spencer said.
He opened a drawer and took out a copy of Mein Kampf. ‘Here, read this. Make it your Bible. You will be asked about it.’ He spoke with nervous authority. Later that evening Spencer asked him where he came from and Richards replied, ‘Where we come from doesn’t matter. That world is finished. What is important is where we are going.’
Astley, by comparison, was tall and fair-skinned with curious slanting eyes and Spencer learned he had been a first class tennis player. He had little conversation except sport. It was clear that he had never done as well as he thought he deserved. He had never, for instance, got beyond the first round at Wimbledon. He blamed the Jews for this. ‘They make fortunes out of sport,’ he said, ‘while we starve. But here they know about sport, they know how important it is.’
Later two girls arrived and they all went to a nachtlokal a couple of streets away. It was filled with soldiers home on leave and they had difficulty in finding a place to sit. The air was thick with smoke and the band played loudly. Astley and Richards drank schnapps with beer chasers and they were soon half drunk and pawing the girls, who didn’t seem to mind. Bruno watched them with mild amusement but in his eyes was a calculating look.
‘We’ll have to get Spencer a girl,’ Astley said. ‘Why don’t you see to that, Bruno? Bruno knows where to get the girls.’ The four of them began to dance, leaving Bruno and Spencer at the table. Bruno put his hand on Spencer’s arm and said, ‘Have you ever had a woman?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want one? I can get you one.’
‘No.’
Bruno smiled at him. ‘You and I, Johnnie. We don’t need anyone.’
All four were in uniform. It was the first time Spencer had worn his and the Union Jack armbands were drawing hostile glances from the soldiers. As the evening wore on Astley and Richards got drunker and their behaviour correspondingly more gross. About ten o’clock they left. By that time the hostility had permeated the room and there were jeers and catcalls as they went out of the door.
Outside they separated, Astley, Richards and the two girls going back to the house, while Bruno and Spencer began the long walk home, for the trams and the S-bahn were on restricted service and had stopped for the night. They had not got more than half way when they were caught in a raid. They ran for the shelter at the Zoo Station. The place was in uproar. Some trains were trying to get away into the suburbs before the bombing began. People were fighting their way into the compartments, trampling over anyone who got in their way.
‘Cowards!’ Bruno said.
Later, Spencer was to discover that these were refugees from the East who were trying to get still farther out of the path of the advancing Russians. Apart from the refugees there were hundreds of soldiers simply squatting on the platform unable to return to the front because of the transport chaos. The shelter was crammed. On one wall was a poster with pictures of an officer and three soldiers who had been shot for looting. Under the pictures the caption read: ‘These sentences were pronounced in the name of the German people but also in the name of those women whose husbands, brothers and sons are worthily defend-the Fatherland.’
The bombs were falling on the centre of the city and several explosions sounded close enough to be in the Zoological Gardens, next to the station. ‘Come, be comfortable,’ Bruno said. They lay on the floor and he put his greatcoat over them both; it was bitterly cold. Spencer slept, waking only once during the early morning. Bruno’s arm was over him, protecting him and keeping him warm. He felt grateful.
About half-past seven they left the shelter. ‘I have things to do,’ Bruno said. ‘I see you at home.’
Spencer felt embarrassed in his uniform. Some people stared at him, some even saluted. Suddenly ahead of him in Buda-pesterstrasse there was a loud explosion. He ran forward and found that a delayed-action mine had exploded and caused a curious and macabre incident. Going up the street at that time had been a dray owned by the Schultheiss brewery. Because of the scarcity of horses the dray was being drawn by two matched white oxen. These had been almost level with the mine when it had exploded. Both oxen had been hideously disfigured. One had had its back legs blown off and was lying on a bed of its own entrails, bellowing with fright and pain. The second was simply a body. Its head, horns and part of its neck had been cleanly severed and the head now lay upright on the pavement, the large purple tongue lolling out.
A crowd collected as the dust from the mine settled and stared at the bloodstained white skins of the bullocks. The driver lay dead on the pavement, the road was running with foaming golden beer. The crowd was silent; even people used to the horrors of the bombing had never seen anything quite like this. Spencer, near the front of the crowd, felt his gorge rise and he turned away in case he vomited. It was then that someone saw his Union Jack armband. He heard a shout and felt a blow on his side. Then there were other blows, other shouts, and he was down on the ground and feet were kicking him.
Two things saved him: the crowd’s rage was so great it defeated itself, it was too eager to savage him and most of its blows and kicks missed. The second was the arrival of two policemen. They were armed with carbines and wore steel helmets and quickly restored order. He was hauled to his feet and before he had come completely to his senses he found himself in the cells of a nearby police station.
At first his story was received with incredulity. The very idea of raising a pro-German British contingent smacked of fantasy. But he persisted. He made them look carefully at the field-grey uniform and they had to acknowledge that it was Waffen SS. They said they would check. At half-past four Lange came to fetch him. They had given him no food in the police station and he had not eaten since the previous evening. Neither Mrs Gut-mann nor Bruno was at home. Lange gave him soup and black bread and sat down at the kitchen table with him, smoked a cigarette and watched him eat. He sat in silence for some time before saying, ‘Berlin’s no place for you. God knows, the war’s no place for you. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
Lange shook his head in wonderment. ‘When I was sixteen all I thought about was rugby. I wasn’t very good at it but we used to play it on the hard-baked fields in Windhuk. Rugby and girls and books. Those are the things you’re supposed to think about when you’re sixteen. Not torpedoes and guns. Do you know what they’ll call you?’
‘How do you mean?’
W’hen the war’s over. And don’t make any mistake about it, we’ve lost.’
Spencer did not want him to answer his own original question. He knew what the word was, but he didn’t want Lange to say it.
‘Can’t you go back to where you came from?’ Lange said.
He thought of the big stoker, Campbell, and shook his head.
‘Well, that’s too bad.’
Spencer ate his soup and his black bread and Lange watched him. ‘Let me give you a piece of advice,’ he said. ‘Don’t sign your name to anything and don’t have your photograph taken. Have you got a story?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Use your brain, Spencer. You know as well as I do what you’re doing, and when the Allies arrive in Berlin, they’re going to want to know what you’ve been doing. There’ll be a gap in your life. So think of a story. Nothing complicated. Keep it simple.’
Spencer felt cold in his bowels at the inevitability of what was going to happen.
‘They told you you were going to fight the Russians. A hero. Let me tell you what it’s really all about. No one expects the British Free Corps to fight the Russians and if it did it wouldn’t make any difference. Why do you think they make you wear the Union Jack armband? Why do you think they supply members of the Free Corps with women and liquor? Because they like you? You’ve heard of something called morale, haven’t you? Well, morale in Germany is not very high at
the moment. Somehow the authorities have got to persuade the last ounce of fight out of the German people and one way is to show them that the British are not so invincible after all. They want you to get drunk in public; they want you to be seen with the local whores. That way the Germans can despise you and feel superior. Do you understand?’
It was too subtle for Spencer to understand immediately. But he thought of the advice about not signing his name and not having his photograph taken in his nice new uniform. ‘Yes, I understand.’
Lange stubbed out a cigarette and got to his feet. ‘I must go to work. You’ll be all right now.’ He stopped at the door and turned. ‘One more thing,’ he paused. ‘Be careful of Bruno.’ He opened the door and Spencer heard him go down the hall.
Spencer washed his dishes and put them away and then went up to the room he shared with Bruno. He was exhausted. He took off his uniform, folded it neady and put it in the brown cardboard box Bruno had given him. He stood on a chair and stretched to place it on top of the huge oak wardrobe that dominated the room. He pushed it too hard for it slithered across and fell down between the wardrobe and the wall. He tugged at one corner of the wardrobe, but it was heavy. He managed to get both hands behind it and heaved with all his strength. It shifted slightly. He heaved again and it moved a few more inches. The box containing his uniform slipped down the wall and landed on the floor. He stretched as far as he could but his arm was not long enough. He pulled the wardrobe out a little farther and finally managed to close his fingers on the box. But it seemed stuck. He pulled hard and brought with it a second box; a shoe-box covered in dust and finger-marks. The house was quiet, the black-out curtains were drawn and the bedside lamp was on. He stood listening for a moment but there were only the sounds of the city. He opened the lid of the box. He was surprised by what it contained. There were four or five pairs of gold-rimmed pince-nez spectacles, a dozen or more gold wedding and signet rings, some inlaid with diamonds. There were gold bangles with precious stones, several pairs of earrings, two necklaces and a gold-topped fountain pen and pencil set. He stood staring at the objects for a few moments and then closed the box, put it on the floor at the back of the wardrobe where it lived in the dust, and pushed the wardrobe back into its original position. He lay on his bed trying to fathom out what he had found and finally came to the conclusion that they were the Gutmanns’ family treasures hidden away for safekeeping in the bombing. But why so many pairs of spectacles?
Berlin Blind Page 9
