1982 - An Ice-Cream War (50 page)

They took a rickshaw back to the quarter of the town that was reserved for German civilians. Formerly a temporary development for junior officials on the railways, it lay behind the marshalling yards and was composed of small corrugated iron bungalows raised two or three feet off the ground on brick piles. German civilians were permitted to move freely around the town during the day, but after dark a curfew was imposed and they were obliged to stay indoors.

It was a curious sensation to be riding through Dar again. Von Bishop looked about him. English soldiers were every-where, union jacks flying from the highest buildings, English street signs at road junctions. German East Africa didn’t exist any more.

Their bungalow was mean and unprepossessing, smaller even than their house in Nanda. The streets in the neighbour-hood were rutted and narrow, pie dogs and skinny hens sniffed and picked at piles of rubbish which mouldered at the side of the road, shade trees were few and far between.

Liesl’s house boasted a ravaged hibiscus hedge and a cinder path to the front door marked by freshly whitewashed stones. Inside there was a sitting room, separated from the single bedroom by a narrow hallway. A kitchen shack and privy stood a few yards from the back door. The Germans were allowed only one servant per household. Kimi, Liesl’s maid from Nanda, welcomed them at the front door.

Inside it was fetid and warm. Von Bishop sat down on a wooden upright chair.

Liesl stood by the window, fanning herself with a piece of card.

“It gets cooler at night,” she said non-committally.

“I suppose it’s better than being herded in a camp.”

“Oh, the English are very fair.”

The maid brought von Bishop a glass of beer.

“My God, beer!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t had it for years.” In fact he’d drunk bottles at Morogoro.

Liesl looked pleased. “I saved it for you.”

Von Bishop got to his feet, went over to her and kissed her on the cheek. Then he stood awkwardly at her side staring through the open shutters at the spindly hibiscus hedge and the cinder path with its whitewashed stones.

“Erich,” Liesl said, still looking outside. “I have to ask you. What happened to Gabriel Cobb?”

“You don’t know?”

“I heard nothing. They moved us here almost immediately. After those men set off after you.”

Von Bishop almost dropped his glass of beer. He forced himself to relax.

“We found him,” he said gravely. “On the Makonde plateau. He was dead, from starvation, weakness…”

Liesl looked at her left hand which rested on the window sill. She prised up a splinter from the dried and cracking wood.

“I knew it,” she said sadly. “When I heard nothing I knew he was dead.” She paused. “Erich, I—”

“We found him quite alone,” von Bishop went on quickly. “His clothes were rags. He had nothing with him. No food, no water. “Unaccommodated man,” as Shakespeare says. A brave but foolish attempt.”

Liesl looked round at him sharply. Von Bishop shrugged his shoulders. “We buried him there. I went on to the Ludjenda confluence, rejoined von Lettow. You never heard anything from, ah, the men following me?”

Liesl opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then she closed it. Her shoulders relaxed.

“No,” she said, exhaling. “Nothing. But I saw one of them yesterday. He reminded me of it all.”

“
Here?
In Dar?” Common sense stilled his alarm. He’d been in captivity a month. If he had been accused of anything he would have learnt of it by now.

“Yes,” Liesl said looking round with mild curiosity.

“Did he see you?”

“I think so. He must have.”

“But he didn’t say anything?”

“No, nothing. I don’t think he recognized me.”

Von Bishop cleared his throat to hide the relief. “They couldn’t have found the grave then.”

“No.” Liesl took her bottom lip between her teeth. “I suppose not.”

Von Bishop set his beer glass down and put his arms around his wife and pulled her to him. She was thinner but her body was still soft. He felt a sense of happiness wash through him. He squeezed her shoulders.

“Soon we’ll be in Germany,” he said. “But perhaps one day they’ll let us come back.”

9 December 1918,
Dar-es-Salaam, German East Africa

Felix stood in the dappled moon-shadow beneath a cotton tree looking at the von Bishops’ house. He cursed his luck. How typical of the way everything had gone that within two days of arriving in Dar he should practically fall over von Bishop’s wife outside the Kaiserhof. He had looked right through her, pretending not to recognize her face and had turned and walked off quickly. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him, however, and to allay any possible suspicions he had not stirred from the hotel for the next few days.

Now he pulled the collar of his linen jacket up above his ears. He was wearing civilian clothes. A cool breeze was coming off the sea. He seemed to have been standing under this tree for hours. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling as he did so the barrel of his service revolver scrape across his pelvis. The gun was too large to go inconspicuously into his jacket pocket so he had thrust it into the waist of his trousers. He took the gun out now and opened it, catching the moon’s gleam on the six brass cartridges. He wondered if the time was right for him to make his move but decided to wait a few more minutes. One of the rooms of the tin bungalow was lit, the other was completely dark. He looked up and down the dusty streets. They were deserted. The moonlight had turned the dust an ash colour and despite the balminess of the night the scène looked cold and chilly. Felix decided to wait a few more minutes. Just in case.

Getting official permission to come to Dar-es-Salaam had presented few problems. He had telegraphed to the Provost Marshal in Dar, saying he had information about the death of his brother, Captain Gabriel Cobb, that might constitute it a war crime. Permission was promptly granted and he went by train to Mombasa, and from there by coastal steamer to Dar. At the Provost Marshal’s office they had been most helpful. He told them the story of Gabriel’s death, leaving nothing out except von Bishop’s name. The harassed and overworked young lieutenant appointed to investigate the case had provided all manner of information about the surviving German officers. Securing von Bishop’s address had not been difficult.

He had set wheels in motion, but he knew they would move very slowly, such was the clutter and chronic disorganization of Dar-es-Salaam. Other cases of alleged German brutality were also pending, let alone the myriad of usual disciplinary matters attending a large and idle occupying army. Felix’s accusations would just have to wait their turn.

Then he had seen the von Bishop woman and, in the interests of safety, had lain low in his tiny room at the top of the Kaiserhof for three days. During this period of inactivity he concentrated on sustaining the mood of hatred and desire for retribution which he’d felt so fiercely all these months.

But, somehow, now he was almost in sight of his quarry he felt his resolve wavering. He decided to let von Bishop speak for himself, to see if he had any defence to offer.

Those few moments when a voice in his head asked him if it was worth persevering were easily overcome. He simply had to conjure up the images of that dreadful day on the plateau. The only trouble was that they brought a train of associated but unwanted memories. Memories of Gabriel and Charis on their wedding day, of Charis’s appallingly misleading reassurances on the train between Aylesbury and London, of her own frightful death. Soon he would be shaky with guilt and unhappiness again, fully aware of his own problematic motives, and yet above all conscious of the overwhelming imbalance, the dreadful unfairness of everything. He was lucky, he reminded himself. He had it in his power to do some squaring up, knot a few of the dangling loose ends. At these times when he was most low he would try to imagine von Bishop’s face, try to visualize the features of the man who had killed his brother. Temple had said it was thin, shaven-headed with a large, sharp nose. It was not much to go on but in his imagination it readily acquired the lineaments of despicable cruelty. He felt instinctively that he would recognize von Bishop anywhere.

He weighed the gun in his hand. It was time to go. Keeping as much as he could to the shadows Felix moved towards the von Bishop house. Not far off a dog began to bark, but it soon fell silent. As he crept towards the bungalow, the gun held in readiness by his side, he felt suddenly possessed of an avenging strength and confidence. There was, he decided, an irrefutable rightness in the doctrine of an eye for an eye. It had a logic that brooked no backsliding: it allowed man some say in his fate; some little control of the order events took upon his planet.

He saw the shadow of a figure against the lighted square of window. He wondered if it were von Bishop. He crept up to the house. He could hear no conversation. He thought suddenly of von Bishop’s wife, and the fact that she might be a witness. He paused. It would be necessary to mask himself somehow. Felix felt through his pockets. He had no handkerchief with him. It was paramount that he disguise his face.

Cursing under his breath, he took off his linen jacket and wrapped and knotted it awkwardly under his chin. Simply by pulling up one fold his face was effectively masked. But somehow this
ad hoc
pragmatic operation had deprived him of his mood of vengeful omnipotence as swiftly as it had arisen. He felt foolish and vulnerable and, try as he might, he couldn’t help wondering what he must look like with his jacket wrapped around his head. Already he was bathed in perspiration, sweat running uncomfortably down his muffled neck.

He looked again at the gun, hoping that the sight of the agent of destruction would inspire him once again, but it only brought another unwelcome thought to mind. When he fired, when he pulled the trigger, the noise in an enclosed space would be deafening. Without doubt it would bring back his partial blindness again, his fractured vision. What would he do then? How would he get away? He threw back his head in desperation and looked at the vague stars in the sky. Why now, at the eleventh hour, were all these obstacles massing in his path? Don’t think, he told himself angrily, just
do
.

He eased round to the dark end of the house. Here the shutters, to what he assumed was the bedroom, were flung wide to cool the room as much as possible prior to the occupants retiring. Reaching up he grabbed the sill. The gun in his hand clanged noisily against the corrugated iron. He dropped immediately into a crouch. But there was no reaction from inside. Ordering his leaping heart to still itself, Felix stuffed the gun back in the waistband of his trousers, stood up and, with some effort, clambered into the empty bedroom. He stood by the window listening for any suspicious noises from the sitting room. All was quiet.

Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the bedroom. A wooden chest against one wall. The tall shape of a cupboard. A stand with a basin on it by a bed. The two beds themselves with tall crude cast-iron bedsteads, rumpled sheets on one of them—

He felt a silent scream of shock echo through his head.
One of the beds was occupied
. He tried to swallow but his Adam’s apple seemed to have swelled to block his throat. As silently as he knew how he drew the gun from his waistband and took a tentative step nearer the bed. The person lay on its back, sound asleep, its large sharp nose silhouetted against the pale wall.

Felix felt his stomach churn with nausea as he realized that the sleeper was von Bishop. He took another small step nearer the bed. Miraculously there was no squeak from the wooden floorboards. He had him now. He aimed the gun. It trembled wildly in his grasp. But he was so close he couldn’t miss.

“Von Bishop,” he hissed. “Wake up.”

There was no movement from the bed.

“Wake up,” he croaked. “Wake up.”

Von Bishop slept on peacefully.

Felix lowered the gun. What now? He took a step closer. He stood almost above him. Felix could hardly hear the sound of his breathing. Hand wobbling, he levelled the gun at von Bishop’s shadowed face.

“Wake. Up.” He reached forward to shake him by the shoulder. This was absurd, he thought, it was going to be impossible to shoot the man now.

Behind him the door swung open.

“He’s dead,” Liesl von Bishop said in a calm voice. “Leave him alone.”

Felix reeled round in horror and aghast surprise, frantically hauling the folds of his jacket up over his face. He lost his balance and staggered, a hand slamming down on the bed for support, thwacking von Bishop’s immobile leg.

The light from the oil lamp she carried illuminated von Bishop’s face. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, his skin looked stretched tight.

“Oh my
God
,” Felix exclaimed tremulously, bending over, gasping for air. “Oh God, Jesus!” He felt as if he were about to fall apart, so critical was the shock he’d received.

“He died this evening,” Liesl said dully. “About three hours ago. Influenza. Spanish influenza, the doctor said.”

Felix felt his rioting body come under minimal control.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she said.

“What?” Felix touched the masking folds of his jacket.

“Your face, why is it covered? And a gun,” she said with more alarm. “Why have you got a gun?”

“In case,” Felix improvised, tearing away his jacket, hoping he wouldn’t have to try and explain that. “Self-protection,” he concluded lamely.

“I saw you outside,” she said. “Standing under the tree. I was waiting for you to come to the door.” She gave him a weary, tolerant smile, as if he were an idiotic child who kept getting into trouble. She moved to one side to let him pass, and Felix walked out of the bedroom into the narrow hall. He put on his jacket and tucked his gun away with some embarrassment.

“You wanted to ask Erich about Gabriel?” she said.

“Yes.” It was odd hearing the sound of his brother’s name on her lips, she used it so familiarly.

Her face went serious. “I must tell you. You know that he’s dead?”