Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  The man smiled and reached under the counter. He removed a crushed box with a jagged tear on the lid. “This one suffered a bit in transit, but place your thumb in the right place and you’ll hardly notice the scratch on the bowl.”

  Ryan smiled. “How much?”

  “How does four sound? And I’ll toss in a little tobacco, if you’re not particular.”

  “Done.” Ryan added a couple of two-mark notes to the coin still resting on the counter. “I’ve been missing the one I lost.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Berlin, Germany

  November 1941

  Ryan eased his sore feet onto the hassock and sighed with relief. He would drain a few blisters before the day was done. In a while he would lay out his possessions and take stock, then make his way to the nearest shop to pick up razor and blades, shaving soap, and small adhesive plasters for his heels. For the moment it was enough to relax while breaking in his pipe.

  His attic room looked down into a narrow street, the window modestly shielded by a lace curtain. Opposite the bed was a chest of drawers topped by a wash bowl and mirror. Ryan sat in the only chair, an ornate monstrosity in worn red velvet, likely some inheritance that no one else would touch. His footstool in faded embroidery had also seen better days. The WC with bathtub was two flights down.

  The rail traffic on the Stadtbahn tracks, elevated almost to his floor level, reverberated down the Emmengasse with great regularity. Perhaps the rumbling of the electrified cars and the huffing of the small freight engines would become less noticeable deeper in the night. He had no intention of remaining long in this cubbyhole, anyway.

  Mrs. Küpfermann was a frail woman in her late sixties or early seventies. Her life must have been harsh and demanding, and the wear and tear showed in her demeanor and gait. She kept her gray hair pinned beneath a dust cap and her house coat clean despite its fraying cuffs. She’d clearly made numerous attempts to hem them before surrendering to the inevitable. Her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes went beyond recent grief to suggest some debilitating disease, and Ryan felt for her in her suffering.

  Her legs could no longer navigate the shallow treads and uneven risers, so he had taken the steep staircase alone to view the room. How the heavy chair had made it up was a mystery. He came back down with effusive praise for its cleanliness and suitability, which seemed to please her despite her sorrows.

  She accepted his condolences graciously, and his payment of two month’s rent in advance even more so. His intention was to move on long before that. Regulations required her to register with the police any household guest who remained beyond three days, but he sensed a lack of interest in observing legal formalities, at least for the moment. She had not asked for his identity papers once she had seen his cash, and accepted his story of a bag left in an S-Bahn locker to be fetched once he got his bearings in the city. She even offered to provide a daily cup or two of Muckefuck and a bread roll with margarine in exchange for ration coupons. That would be every morning except Sundays, and he would have to join her in the kitchen by nine.

  A decent night’s sleep did wonders. The radiator had banged and clanged for hours, even after he’d turned the handle till it swiveled to no effect. At least the racket had kept his mind off the rail traffic up the street. He’d ultimately surrendered to total and mindless exhaustion and awakened refreshed. He sponged down with a washcloth and water warmed in a bowl set atop the radiator, then lightly dampened his trousers to help smooth out the worst of the wrinkles before hanging them up to dry. He would have to find better shoes before the day was over. Removing two days’ growth of beard helped as well. The considerate Mrs. Küpfermann had supplied a few adhesive strips for his feet, and even offered a half-empty bottle of aftershave from her departed husband’s shaving kit. Faced with her barely concealed tears, he felt obliged to accept. Now he splashed the citrusy 4711 on both cheeks and a bit under his arms in lieu of deodorant. Feeling renewed, he headed down to breakfast.

  “How are you set for menswear?” she asked, setting a cup of ersatz before him. “You’re much the same size as my Anton was, bless his soul—” she blew her nose and slipped the handkerchief back in her pocket, “and his clothes won’t do me any good hanging in the closet.”

  Ryan was pleased by the chance offer, but his expectations were low. “Happy to take a quick look.”

  She returned with her hands full. “You can have these for a song, seeing as how he’d be pleased to have them put to good use.” She sniffed again.

  Most of what she brought out was of no interest, but Ryan was happy to pay twenty marks for his Sunday suit. Though the jacket was a fraction short in the sleeves, the overall fit appeared good. “We buried him in his other, but that was his favorite. He outgrew the waist in recent years, but you do it proud.” She threw in two passable shirts, a tie, a woolen scarf, and some undergarments. Ryan insisted on paying an additional ten marks. “Sorry, but the accident left his overcoat in tatters.” Her voice broke with emotion.

  An hour later he reappeared, decked out in her husband’s best wardrobe. Her eyes again brimmed with tears and she asked him to wait, returning moments later with a serviceable pair of leather gloves. “No charge. Now you’ll look as dashing as my Anton in his prime.”

  His highest priority was losing the compromised Lewis Graf identity. No telling how long it would take for a substitute cover once Ellington’s cut-out contact passed along word of his distress. He mentioned needing photos for a new work permit and Frau Küpfermann recalled a photography studio less than a ten-minute walk away. He was surprised but pleased at her lack of curiosity. Was she naïve or simply too distraught over her recent loss to care? Perhaps she was so anxious for his rent that she preferred ignorance.

  Dircksenstrasse was abuzz with freight deliveries. High-wheeled wagons butted up to the open archways beneath the elevated rail line. The double-teams of dray horses stood placidly in the traces, their manure added an earthy smell to the bright morning air of the city. Drivers unloaded wooden crates onto hand trucks and hustled them into the subterranean storerooms. The inclement weather of several days had moved on, leaving behind a glassy sky with scattered clouds reflected in the canopy of the rail station. A chill wind sent errant newspapers and advertising flyers tumbling across the cobbles. Ryan dodged a sputtering motorcycle as he stepped into the street and almost lost his footing on the slick pavement.

  Egged on by a lack of legitimate identification, he spent several minutes placing calls from a pay telephone fronting the station. Loitering in any public space without proper papers was an invitation to trouble. Any fit male had best be doing productive labor for the Fatherland. He reached a female voice on the COI cut-out number, gave his Lewis Graf identity, and briefly explained his urgent need to speak with someone. She told him to call back the following day. He phoned the consulate in Geneva and left a message for Ed to check his mail. Finally, to move things along, he dialed the number for Canaris’ cut-out and found it disconnected. He had the operator give a second try with the same result.

  Next came a quick visit to a stationary shop at the head of Dircksenstrasse. With a few blank postcards and some postage, he quickly sketched out a farm scene revealing the location of his new lodgings. On the backside he penned a note which described the farmyard and alluded to its owner, a charming “Frau Emmen.” Ed would now know how to locate him. He would send an update should his stay at the new address be cut as short as he hoped and fully expected. He dropped the postcard in the box on the front wall of the police presidium.

  With his cap pulled low and collar up, he turned right at the tower anchoring the rail station and headed into the labyrinth of lesser streets leading east of the square. These backstreets of Berlin Mitte were quiet compared to the constant hubbub out on the Alex. A street sweeper whisked rhythmically at the stones, the stub of his cigarette bobbing with every whoosh and scrape of the rush broom. Two women chatted amiably over the shards of a clay pot knocked from a window sill. A few ge
ranium stalks, long deceased, rested in a clump at their feet. A few steps farther along he came upon a second-hand clothing shop and acquired a passable pair of shoes at an attractive price, since his old ones were taken in partial trade.

  His spirits were now surprisingly high, given the improbable task of quickly finding someone to forge a passable new identity. He would start with a photographer and then, offering sufficient cash inducement, seek out a forger’s atelier. He understood little of counterfeiting but suspected skilled players could take the compromised documents and, with the help of new photographs, manufacture a persona not listed on any Gestapo watch list. If anyone should know how to contact a forger, a photographic studio seemed a reasonable place to start.

  The shop entrance was little more than an inset doorway beside an angled display window. Up front hung a family vignette in sleek frame; next came a portrait of a serviceman forever at attention, and then an older fireman in uniform staring intensely at the camera, his waxed mustache drawing the viewer’s gaze toward his sunken cheeks. In stark contrast to that formality was the last portrait, a young couple in a woodland setting with a picnic spread out before them. Ryan finally spotted a sign advertising professional headshots for any civil or business need. Quick delivery—four marks for an equal number of standard-sized prints.

  He entered the anteroom and the bell above the door rang to a standstill. An unmanned reception desk overwhelmed the tight space. He found himself surrounded by countless portraits in heavy frames, some old-fashioned and gilded, others sleek and linear in black and silver. Among all the forced smiles and sullen glares he noted endeavors in architectural photography, here capturing a gothic gargoyle exposing his backside to the world, there the crisp lines of some modern structural columns and an unadorned pediment.

  When no one appeared, Ryan reached up to tap the bell by hand. At last a muffled voice sounded from well beyond a curtain: “Moment mal…komme gleich.” Ryan took a seat on the caned chair at the desk and idly thumbed through a photo album. Two minutes passed before a man with a decided limp shuffled out from the hidden recesses. The photographer wore a black apron of rubberized fabric shielding him from collar to mid-calf and smelling of vinegar. He had a bald pate, a massive goiter at his neck, and a bottom-heavy build. Ryan’s uncharitable thought was of a bruised eggplant. The man’s eyes were moist and inflamed, and he dabbed at them with a handkerchief, sniffing as he spoke. “My apologies, sir. A bit of an accident mixing chemicals and you witness the price for my carelessness. Were my wife in the shop this morning, I’d catch all hell for neglecting the goggles.”

  “No apologies needed, and sorry for your misfortune.” Ryan rose to shake the man’s offered hand. “Shouldn’t you flush them with water?”

  “Indeed I should. And have. Gave it a lengthy go at the tap already.” He snorted into the handkerchief. “Not the first time I’ve been this clumsy.” He chuckled, embarrassed. “For the time being, we’ll let nature take her course.” He stuffed the soiled cloth into his apron pocket and, with one eye nearly closed, attempted a smile. “Now, how may I be of service?”

  “I need a few photos for passport purposes.”

  “Right up my alley. Come into the studio, I’ll work my magic, and they’ll be ready by closing.” He parted the curtain to reveal a larger room, temporarily unlit. Floods and spotlights climbed tall metal standards. A box camera with a bellows occupied a tripod facing several background screens suspended from the ceiling. Before the front panel, a neutral pastiche of grays and browns, sat a four-legged stool. Other chairs, props for group shots, hugged the far wall.

  An open door in the back revealed a darkroom, its red safelight still burning. A heavy porcelain sink occupied the nearest corner. Drying prints and lengths of processed film dangled from a cord disappearing into the darkness. A row of large trays ranged atop the counter. Ryan made out the contours of a tall photographic enlarger, its shiny metal trim glowing rose-colored, its matte-black surfaces dissolving in the gloom. The chemical smells were more intense that close to the darkroom.

  “Please be seated.” The man gestured to the stool. Ryan obliged, assuming the disinterested air most common on official documents of identity. The photographer snapped a film cartridge onto the back of the apparatus, turned on a few lights and adjusted a reflecting screen to remove shadows from Ryan’s face. He clicked off a dozen shots as he rolled the film through the case. “That should do it, sir.” He dabbed at his left eye, then switched off the lamps, leaving the room in semi-darkness. “Four marks. Rush orders an extra two. Close of business today. Otherwise, noon tomorrow, if that works for you.”

  “And if I need them sooner, say by early afternoon?”

  The man held his watch up to catch the light from the front, then glanced toward the darkroom to gauge his work load. Ryan guessed it wasn’t that pressing. The phone had remained silent and no new customers had entered the shop. “Two hours, but I’ll have to move a few orders around. Cost you double.”

  “Not a problem,” Ryan said, reaching for his wallet. “And perhaps you could help a bit further with a little information?” The man’s grin faded. “I’ll gladly pay,” Ryan added.

  The shopkeeper sensed murkier waters. “What type of information?” He wiped his hands on the front of his apron, a gesture both nervous and futile given its slick surface.

  “Just a name, sir. A local printer, someone who does quality work, and can fill an order quickly.” Ryan knew the risks but wouldn’t hold back now. He casually pulled out a twenty-mark note and laid it on the stool. “Someone who doesn’t ask a lot of questions.” The photographer rubbed his temples before running both hands over his bald head. Clearly deliberating the risk involved, he glanced repeatedly toward the curtain shielding the front of the shop. Ryan could read his thoughts: could this stranger be setting a trap; a policeman or a snitch?

  The man spoke at last: “I run an honest studio here, no funny business.”

  “And all I need is a name. You aren’t involved in any way, just sharing a bit of information.” He set down a second twenty.

  Another silence, then a determined answer: “There may be someone. I don’t know him personally but people do talk. Come back at two for your photographs…and a name.”

  “And a way to reach this someone?”

  “Phone number is the best I might do.” The man stepped closer to the stool, protectively hovering over the cash, certainly far more than he earned on the best of days.

  Ryan added another five marks and put on his cap, anxious to escape the chemical fumes. He left the man in the back room, fidgeting with his hands, eyes blinking rapidly, tearing up.

  “Bis später,” he said, “till later.”

  At a quarter past two Ryan again entered the photo studio. He felt somewhat tense and prepared for quick action, knowing that—should the photographer have betrayed him to the police—this was the moment when they would close in. He’d spent the last hour in the shadows of an alleyway facing the studio, smoking his pipe and discretely watching for activity. Nothing extraordinary had caught his eye, just typical neighborhood comings and goings: a bicycle messenger with a package for the studio, two elderly women strolling past while deep in conversation, a postwoman making her rounds, and a young man lighting a cigarette while looking into the display window and then ambling off again. Ryan had spotted the photographer at the front desk, dabbing periodically at his eyes, eating something from a paper sack and drinking from a thermos, perhaps waiting for Ryan’s photographs to dry.

  This time the bell above the door had barely announced his arrival when the photographer emerged from beyond the dark curtain. His eyes were still blood-rimmed, but he appeared more relaxed than before. He stepped onto the sidewalk and glanced up and down the street, then returned to withdraw a dun-colored envelope from the desk drawer. Ryan slid out the pictures, professionally-done and trimmed to size for any official document. “Very nice work.” Ryan returned them to the sleeve and checked the cover
for any notation. “And the name and number of that ‘someone?”

  The man wiped his face with both hands. He picked up a pencil and pad and handed them over. “You write while I dictate.” He bit at his lower lip. “Better not to be too involved, right?” He gave the information from memory. Ryan recorded the name and a phone number. He slipped the envelope into his breast pocket and left an additional eight marks on the desk, wishing the shopkeeper a good day. The door jingled noisily behind him. Step one accomplished.

  The telephone rang repeatedly. At last a gruff voice picked up and identified the locale as Schultheiss Taverne. Muffled noise at the bar made hearing difficult, and the man on the line interrupted repeated efforts to make himself understood. “Becker!” Ryan shouted into the mouthpiece for a third time, drawing the attention of a woman beneath the canopy who clearly waited for that particular pay phone. He ignored her and gave it another try: “I’m trying to reach a Stefan Becker!”

  “One moment, please.” The background sounds diminished, and Ryan pictured the barkeep shutting a door to escape the clamor of boisterous customers. The voice returned to the line, still something less than friendly: “What d’ya want with Becker? He ain’t here.”

  “I was given this number. I need an emergency print job.”

  Silence.

  “Did you catch that?”

  “A print job, you say.”

  “Correct. I’ll make it worth his while.”

  “Say I can track him down, how does he reach you?”

  Ryan read off the number on the dial. “How long will it take? The phone’s public.”

  “Stay put.” The line went dead.

  Ryan kept the receiver to his ear, feigning further conversation. The impatient woman finally moved on with a look of disgust. She picked up at a newly-vacated telephone closer to the station entrance. He clicked off but held down the lever, unconsciously tapping his foot on the concrete as he awaited the call-back.