‘Bruno is a dangerous person,’ he was saying. ‘I think he is the only truly amoral person I have met in my life. Someone who literally does not know the difference between right and wrong. The war made him rich, you know.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘I don’t know how he did it, but after we moved we saw a lot of him. That was in the bad time just after the war. No one had money, we were all cold and hungry. Except Bruno. I remember he had a wonderful coat. It was one of those coats wealthy people wore in the thirties. A great black coat with an astrakhan collar. God knows where he got it from.’
‘Looted, probably. Once I found a shoe box under that big wardrobe in our room. It was filled with rings and necklaces, gold-rimmed spectacles, gold pens, anything valuable.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I didn’t realize what it was myself till later on. At first I thought it belonged to Mrs Gutmann. I thought it had been put there for safe keeping. Eventually there were two shoe boxes. Later I realized how he got the stuff. That’s why he was gone so often in those last days.’
‘Where was he looting?’
‘In the bombed buildings.’
Lange shook his old head slowly from side to side. Then in a querulous voice he said, ‘He never gave anything to his mother, you know. Not a penny. And he always had food: French cheeses, coffee, meat even. In those days it was like gold. I remember he came to our apartment once. Not here. We were living then in Kopenick. He had some bratwurst. This must have been late in 1945 in the winter. We hadn’t seen a sausage for two or three months, not of that quality anyway. I suppose he had about half a kilo. His mother cooked it for him in the German way with apples and raisins — he even brought those, too. And he sat down and he ate everything, sausage, apples, even the last raisin, then he took a piece of our bread and wiped the pot.’ His hands jerked angrily under the rug. ‘I’ve never forgotten that. Whatever he does, he does for himself, and that means profit.’
‘But — in London — what did he have to gain?’
‘Your house, Spencer. He used you. Another safe house, don’t you see, like those of the schili. If the police get close, he will use you again. Let me tell you a story about Bruno. This happened some months after they put up the Wall. I don’t believe in the Wall, by the way. You put a fence around people and they say, “Why? I wonder what it’s like on the other side. It may be better than here.” But anyway... the time I’m speaking of was when our Government decreed that it was forbidden to go into the West. You may remember there were escapes: people jumping from windows, flying over in small planes, swimming across the Wannsee. And, of course, the tunnels. There was one particular tunnel, I forget where it was exactly, somewhere near the checkpoint. It had been a series of cellars linked up beneath a row of houses that eventually led to a bomb shelter under the street, which in turn led to another series of cellars in the West. No one had to dig anything; it was there already. But no one knew about this tunnel because the people had all been evacuated.’
Something stirred in Spencer’s mind. ‘Had the houses been bombed?’ he said.
‘Some had been damaged, I think. Why do you ask?’
‘I wondered, that’s all.’
‘Please do not interrupt. Where was I? Oh, yes, the tunnels. This particular one was Bruno’s tunnel and he was making a lot of money out of it. Each person who went through he charged. There were other escape organizations which did not want money, they were doing it from other motives. But in Bruno’s tunnel you paid in advance, always with jewellery or valuables, never with money. Nearly five hundred people went through that tunnel. Then one day the authorities laid a trap and caught twenty people inside it and were able to close it for good.’
‘And you think that Bruno — ?’
‘Of course. Who else? I asked him about it. He didn’t mind admitting it. I told you; he is an amoral person.’
‘Why did he do it?’
‘For money. He told me that things were getting more and more difficult. He knew it would only be a matter of time before they found the tunnel, so he went to the authorities, told them about it as a loyal citizen and they paid him.’
‘So he was paid by both sides.’
‘That is true. You see what I mean about character?’
‘Yes.’ Spencer looked at his watch. The time was running out. ‘What does he do now?’
‘That I can’t say. I know he lives in the West but he has no difficulty in coming into the East Zone. He used to come and visit his mother when he felt like a home-cooked meal. Sometimes he would even stay a day or two. I think the West German police may have been after him on these occasions. Once it was for nearly two weeks.’
‘What did he do after the tunnel was closed? How does he make his money?’ He remembered the policeman Hoest in London telling him of the bank robberies and the bombings. Now he was hearing another side of Bruno’s activities.
‘He buys and sells. I believe he is what is called a middle man. And in this city if you have good contacts on either side of the Wall, life can be very sweet.’
‘What sort of things does he buy and sell?’
‘I can’t tell you everything he does because I don’t know,’ Lange said. ‘But you in the West know we often suffer shortages, you are always writing about them. Well, say there is a shortage of cooking oil in the city and we need some quickly. We cannot wait for it to come from Romania or Cuba. We must get it from the West.’
‘So you go to people like Bruno?’
Lange gave a small shrug. ‘Force majeure,’ he said.
‘These contacts,’ Spencer said. ‘I can understand him having them in the West, but what about here?’
‘We are only human, you know, Spencer.’
‘You mean he makes them through bribery?’
‘Gifts might perhaps be a better word.’
They stared at each other. Then Spencer heard voices and turned. The people from the restaurant were beginning to come down the staircase and make their way to the bus.
‘Where can I find him?’ he said.
‘I wish I could help.’
‘Is there nothing you know? Not even a telephone number?’
‘There may be. I can’t say. My wife’s address book is still at home.’
‘Will you look?’
‘What are you going to do with him if you find him?'
Spencer did not reply.
‘That is your business, anyway,’ Lange said.
‘Yes. Will you look?’
The last of the tourists were queueing to get aboard.
‘I always thought you were a sad case, Spencer. You did something wrong once and I knew you would live to regret it. I was right.’ He paused. ‘I’ll look.’
‘How will you get it to me?’
‘What’s the name of your hotel?'
Spencer told him.
‘I cannot promise anything.’
Spencer rose and they shook hands. Lange’s old skin was as cold as frozen meat. ‘I wish you good luck,’ he said. ‘I think you will need it.’
Spencer ran to the bus. As it pulled away he looked out of the window. Lange was sitting where he had left him. Then slowly he rose to his feet and shuffled along the path by the lake.
*
Lilo was waiting for him when he reached the hotel. She was sitting on the edge of a chair in the lounge and behind her a group of people was watching a football match on television. She rose as he came in from the dark street and he thought how good she looked, tall, long-legged, the sweep of the blue suede coat to mid-calf and the high collar giving her a slender, almost an athletic look. He went towards her and they shook hands.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘It has certainly been interesting.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not here, with this going on.’ He indicated the television screen. ‘Let’s go round to our... to the bar.’ The word ‘our’ hung there for a second. They went to the Balkan restaur
ant. He was becoming familiar with the place and the waitress greeted him like an old friend. He felt at home there; territorial. They ordered gin-and-tonics.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Good health.’
He looked at her over the rim of his glass, thinking again what an attractive woman she was with her jet black hair cut straight across her eyebrows and her dark skin.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes. I didn’t think I would, though. There was no message from you.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I was not certain right up to the last. I was working on it, and then it became too late for a message. He wouldn’t say if he would see you or not.’
‘We were held up at the checkpoint. They kept us waiting for nearly half an hour and then they made us get out of the bus for an extra passport check.’
‘They do that sometimes. They do not like to refuse tourists, but they make it uncomfortable. How were you contacted?’ ‘Very cloak and dagger.’
‘Please?’
‘I mean it was...’ He groped for an explanation. ‘It was sinister. But then the whole bloody place is like that.’ He described how the tour guide had pressed the postcard on him. ‘I thought she was drumming up business. It was embarrassing. Then when I looked at it I saw it wasn’t the Russian War Memorial at all.’ He described the area.
‘It’s the Treptower Park,’ she said. ‘You were afraid?’
‘I suppose it was after the business at the checkpoint. And then I began to wonder where the postcard had originated. It crossed my mind it might have been sent by Bruno himself.’ Her head jerked up and he could see a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘That means you do not trust me,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I made the arrangements.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
She said nothing, waiting for him to go on, but he could almost feel her animosity. ‘Well, anyway, that’s where I met him, in the Treptower Park. The bus had stopped for refreshments; it was the same as the picture. He was right where the cross was marked. God, he’s old now. An old man wrapped up in a blanket with scars on his cheeks. But a lot of the old spirit was there. He’s done very well. According to his lights.’
‘Yes,’ she said impatiently.
‘He became head of the news service on their radio.’
‘Go on.’
‘Anyway, that’s where we talked. Outside, by the lake.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
What did he say? Did he tell you where Bruno was?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You mean he said nothing?’
‘It was a waste of time.’
‘You were with him for thirty-five minutes and you got nothing from him?’ There was a note of rising anger in her voice. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’
‘Why shouldn’t you?’
The waitress was standing at the end of the little passage that led to the kitchen, watching them.
‘You said you would cooperate with me on the story. You agreed that you would give me information.’
‘I have given you information. I have been cooperating.’
‘I go to the trouble of finding Lange for you and now you will not tell me anything.’
‘What can I tell you if there’s nothing to tell?’
She got down off the bar stool and he could see her hands were trembling with rage. When he had first walked into the hotel she had been excited, anticipatory. Now the excitement had thrust her into anger. Her moods veered wildly.
‘I will not help you more,’ she said, her English becoming ragged as her emotions grew more intense.
‘Lilo, believe me! I would tell you if I could. We talked about Bruno. Lange told me about some of the things in the past. It’s not my fault he doesn’t know where Bruno is.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ she said, and she turned on her heel and walked out.
He went back to his hotel room, poured himself a whisky and sat sipping it in his bath. He would have to be careful now. There were some things she could know and some things not, and he would have to watch where the line was drawn. When he had bathed he put on a towelling dressing-gown and went into the bedroom. He noticed a small square of white paper lying near the door and he knew it had not been there before. Someone must have pushed it under the door. He squatted down and turned it over. There was a telephone number on one side: 0C41-82675. So the old man had managed after all. He sat on his bed, staring at the number; the telephone was only a few feet away. Should he phone now? His hand went out and he picked up the receiver.
‘Bitte?’ said the girl on the switchboard.
What was he going to say? How was he going to start the conversation?
He replaced the receiver and sat staring at it. First of all he would say, ‘Is that you, Bruno?’ But what if Bruno did not answer? What if someone else answered? What if whoever answered said there was no one there by the name of Bruno? He would have to take the chance. He lifted the receiver again. ‘Bitte?’ said the voice. He gave her the number and heard her dialling. And then the ringing at the other end of the line. He had come out sweating from the bath, now he was cold and clammy. The phone went on ringing until finally he put down the receiver. As he did so there was a knock at the door. Lilo stood in the passage.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve just had a bath,’ he said.
‘May I come in?’
‘Let me get you a drink. Whisky?’ He poured her one.
‘I wanted to come to see you,’ she said, ‘to say I am sorry for what happened.’ She was calm now.
‘Nothing happened.’
‘Yes, I was rude to you.’
‘You were disappointed, that’s all. It’s understandable.’
‘You are kind. I’m afraid I have a terrible temper. My father always said it would get me into trouble.’
‘And has it?’
She smiled. ‘I am in a strange man’s bedroom — that could be trouble.’
‘Except I’m not a strange man.’
‘That’s true.’ She kicked off her shoes and said, ‘May I sit on the bed?’
‘Of course.’
She curled her legs under her and sat against the headboard sipping her whisky.
‘Have you eaten?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Shall I order us something?’
‘Do you like to drink?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I, too, sometimes.’ She held out her empty glass.
He brought her a new drink. ‘When we were talking in the bar I forgot something,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘To take notes.’
‘We can go over it again.’
He repeated what he had told her about Lange and then she put down her notebook. There was a moment of silence while he searched for conversation then she said, ‘Last night you asked me to stay. Would you like me to stay tonight?’
‘Yes.’ It slipped out before he could stop himself. He waited for the familiar feeling of self-disgust, of shame at his disloyalty, to sweep over him; instead his skin crawled with anticipatory pleasure.
‘Excuse me a moment.’
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He heard the water running and in a little while she came out again. She had made herself a fresh drink, she had also taken off all her clothes except a half-slip. She was thin and high-breasted and he could see her rib-cage. She went back to the bed and he followed her. It was over quickly, too quickly, he thought, for her. The light was off and they lay in the glow from the city. He filled their glasses. She put her hand out, took his and said, ‘Was that all right for you?’
‘Are you asking that on or off the record?’ She smiled, and he bent and kissed her. ‘Of course!’
‘Tell me what Lange said.’
‘About what?’
‘You said there were things that Bruno had done.’
He told her La
nge’s story about the escape tunnel and how Bruno had become a middle-man supplying shortages. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no more to tell.’
After a little while she looked at her watch. ‘It’s late. I must go.’
‘I thought you were going to stay.’
‘I have stayed.’
She swung her long legs off the bed and went into the bathroom. When she came out she said, ‘Do you want me to go on trying to put you in touch with Bruno?’
‘Where would you start?’
‘I’ll have to think.’
‘Isn’t there somewhere I can contact you?’
‘I’m never there.’ She put her hand up to his face and touched it as she had the night before. It was a curiously maternal gesture. ‘Good-bye.’
He sat on the bed for a long while after she had left. He should have been elated, instead a feeling of sadness and loneliness came over him. He had another drink and then asked for Bruno’s number again. As before, the telephone rang without answer.
Disgust settled on him like a cloak. What made it worse was that she had used him clinically and casually. She was an information gatherer — that is how she survived, how she made her living — and the method was of no concern.
He went to bed, but soon realized he was not going to be able to sleep. The anger remained but now, in the darkness, became diffused. Images fed it: Sue huddled by the door, the scream of Riemeck in the room. He twisted and turned, feeling the sweat break out on his body. Then, on top of those images came others: the woman police official at Checkpoint Charlie, the bus-guide pleading with him to buy a postcard, the wrapped, blanketed figure of Lange by the steel-grey lake, the old frozen hands, the scarred cheeks. And over everything the shadow of Bruno.
The more he learnt about Bruno, the more his anger and hatred grew. He knew now he was capable of destroying him, of rending and tearing him, of obliterating him. But at the same time he had to say to himself: be calm, be cool. Nothing would bring Sue back and he had his own life to live. He tried to force himself to sleep, to think of nothing, to make his mind a blank; but slowly, almost of their own volition, other images began to form. He was back in Berlin during the war, during those final days, when he had seen Bruno for the last time; the time he always tried to keep out of his thoughts.
Berlin Blind Page 15
