Authors: Pierre Frei
Karin bowed her head. She spoke in a low voice. 'My patron and friend Nadja Horn, to whom I owe everything, and whom I carelessly and unthinkingly destroyed.' She looked up. 'I did not intend to do it, Mr Chairman, but it will haunt me all my life.'
'Didn't intend to do it? That's an outright lie,' said the woman tribunal member. 'We have before us the text of your evidence, given in court, which sent Nadja Horn to her death.'
'But we also have the decision of the present public prosecutor's office,' said Dr Jordan. Karin had asked him to speak for her. 'The case against Frau Karin Rembach, known as Verena van Bergen, was dropped a few days ago. I myself heard Lore Bruck admit that she told the Gestapo about Verena van Bergen's thoughtless repetition to her of Nadja Horn's opinion that the war was lost. It was not Verena van Bergen who denounced Nadja Horn, but Lore Bruck. Unfortunately we can't call her to account for it now. She died in an air raid.'
'We're concerned here not with the criminal but with the human aspect of the case,' the stout woman insisted. 'The accused profited by her good relations with the Nazi regime and caused the death of a colleague, at least through negligence.'
'Is there anything else you would like to say about this, Frau van Bergen?' Karin shook her head, hating the whole episode.
After a short consultation, the tribunal delivered its ruling: a three-year ban on working in her profession.
And what am I going to live on meanwhile?' she challenged them.
'Try the Labour Office,' they suggested, indifferent to her plight.
The Labour Office had nothing for her, but a helpful official told her: 'If you happen to know a little English, the Yanks are looking for people to work for them.'
Her father had spoken English to her before he went to the Far East and never came back. That was twelve years earlier, but a little of it had stuck. 'I want work' sounded all right. There was a nameplate on the desk in front of her: cuRTIs s. CHALFORD. The man behind the desk was friendly, in his thirties, with thinning fair hair, a round, rosy face, and pale-blue eyes. Mr Chalford was head of the German-American Employment Office in Lichterfelde.
Washington had advertised positions in occupied Germany. Applications came in from people all over the United States who were unemployed or hoped to improve their prospects - the adventurous, the curious, many emigrants. It was not always the creme de la creme who were sent off to the defeated enemy country without much in the way of examinations. They were all put in uniform, darker than an officer's US Army uniform but of the same cut, and with a triangular badge bearing the inscription us CIVILIAN on the upper left sleeve.
Mr Chalford was obviously one of the better sort. 'Well, Fraulein Rembach, let's see what we can do for you.' He opened a file and slowly turned the pages. 'Housekeeper for Major Kelly? Waitress at the Harnack House? Cleaning lady in the Telefunken Building?' He spoke German with a heavy American accent. 'No, all gone already.'
Curiously, Karin looked at the little black marble obelisk garlanded with barbed wire. A genuine Barlach,' explained Mr Chalford proudly, noticing her interest. 'Considered "degenerate art" by you people until recently. Spent the Hitler years in a pigeon loft. I managed to acquire it for a few cartons of Chesterfields. Now, about you, Fraulein Rembach. I think I have something for you. Our dry cleaners' shop at Uncle Tom's needs staff. Sergeant Chang will show you the ropes. A hundred and twenty marks a week, army food, half a CARE parcel a month. Girls who smile at the customers sometimes get given a few cigarettes too. OK?'
She didn't need to think about it long. Army food and the coveted foodstuffs from a CARE parcel made up her mind. Mr Chalford nodded, satisfied. Now, off you go to the photographer and for a medical examination. We don't want any TB or VD brought in.'
Sergeant Chang was a friendly Chinese man from San Francisco who tried in vain to initiate Karin into the mysteries of several dozen little bottles for treating fruit, wine, grass, grease and various other stains before the item of clothing was put into the big, chemical dry-cleaning machine. Karin got the tinctures hopelessly confused, and from then on Sergeant Chang employed her at the desk, taking in and returning the garments.
Mr Chalford's prediction had been correct - a smile often brought her chocolate or cigarettes from the customers. Some of them also wanted a date. Karin made her American boyfriend an excuse for declining. A young soldier in the Signal Corps was just what she needed. Dennis Morgan was a harmless boy from Connecticut. He invited her to Club 48 and gave her nylons and shoes from the PX. She had enough clothes; her wardrobe had survived the chaos. She was nice to Dennis, no more. He was satisfied with being envied by his friends for his beautiful German Fraulein.
Less agreeable was Otto Ziesel, the German driver from the motor pool who collected the garbage in an army truck and emptied the big garbage bins behind the shops. He wore GI clothes died black, and was a repulsive creature. He called Karin and the other women in the dry cleaners' Yankee floozies.
'Sooner a good strong Yank than a German wimp like you.' Karin's colleague Gerti Kruger was never at a loss for an answer. She had found herself a black sergeant, tall as a tree, from the Transport Division.
'You want your cunt burning out,' Ziesel spat.
One Tuesday morning in August, Sergeant Chang called Karin round behind the shop. The guard at the main gate was on the phone. There was a German there who insisted on speaking to her. 'Five minutes, no more,' Chang told his employee.
Erik de Winter was waiting at the gate. He had lost weight and wore a shabby suit, but his youthful laugh was still the same. 'Erik!' Shedding tears, she ran to him, and they were in each other's arms. 'You're alive.' She could manage no more.
'The Russians let me go.' They had found him at his aunt's place in Nauen, and interned him in a camp for a while. 'The old lady in your apartment told me where to find you.'
'Fraulein Bahr. The Housing Office billeted her on me. It seems two rooms are too much for one person. What about you?'
Erik's apartment in Lietzenburger Strasse had been destroyed. A direct hit at the last minute. I'm staying with friends on Fasanenplatz. Fraulein Bahr says you've been banned from stage and screen work?'
'I'll tell you about it later. The sergeant only gave me five minutes.'
'Listen, my angel. The old UfA head of production is back. The Nazis chased him away, but Erich Pommer is back now as US film officer, and very powerful. We know each other well. He's invited me to dine with him this evening. I'll talk to him. I'm sure he'll get your ban lifted if I speak up for you.'
'Oh. Erik, that would be wonderful.'
'Come and see me after work tomorrow. Then I'll know more.' He wrote his new address down for her.
'See you tomorrow evening.' She embraced him passionately.
The military governor was expected. The army band's gala uniforms had to be cleaned. Sergeant Chang had told his staff to work a late shift. Karin helped to sort the items of clothing, and thought of Erik. He would be having dinner with his friend now. Tomorrow she'd know if he could do anything for her.
She was tired of cleaning clothes for the Americans. The cinema was her world. The studios in Babelsberg were up and running again. UfA was now known as DEFA. And a man from Poland was shooting his first production in a former poison-gas factory in Spandau. He had brought a case with him, full of dollars from heaven knew where, to finance it.
She was on the station platform in time to catch the last U-Bahn train. A couple of GIs and their girls were standing at the far end; the rest of the platform was in darkness. A figure emerged from behind the newspaper kiosk, long closed at this time of night. Why, she wondered in surprise, was he wearing a motorbike cap and protective goggles? Then a chain came around her neck, clinking. She tried to scream, but the chain constricted her throat. Her attacker dragged her behind the kiosk as if she were livestock.
She flailed her arms helplessly. A barely audible rattle came from her throat. Avid fingers pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties. Burning pain tore her vulva. Her tormentor was gasping with excitement. With relief, she felt herself losing consciousness. Her last thought was: I hate death scenes.
CHAPTER TWO
INGE DIETRICH SERVED out breakfast: two thin slices of rye bread each. With it the family drank brownish ersatz coffee made from roasted chestnuts, with half a spoonful of powdered milk which refused to dissolve and floated on top of the coffee in little lumps. 'Funny, I thought we had more left,' she said in surprise as she cut the bread.
'That's the way with rations,' said her husband equably. 'Well, at least you boys get school dinners.'
'It's always bean soup,' complained Ralf.
'I had a real bit of bacon with the rind on it in mine the other day,' Ben said, glad that his mother wasn't pursuing the subject of the bread.
'Have you packed your school bags?'
'Sure. Come on.' Ben hauled his brother off his chair. He had decided to go to school today for a change. On Wednesday they had physical education, art and geography, which left gratifyingly little time for Latin and maths. Most important of all, the sixth lesson was religious instruction. He was going to turn the pathos on for Pastor Steffen. He urgently needed a New Testament.
Captain John Ashburner put down the piece of paper and leaned back in the chair at his desk. Outside his window, which had a view of Garystrasse, two adolescents were washing a few of the Military Police jeeps. Sergeant Donovan had come up with a practical method of recruiting youths for carwashing: he simply arrested a few of them for hanging about. 'Gives those damn Hitler Youth kids something sensible to do,' he announced, pleased with himself.
The captain went on reading. It was upsetting. The German inspector had kept his promise, and sent him not only the results of the autopsy but a translation too. Not particularly edifying reading. He thought of home, where these dreadful things didn't happen, where the worst you got was a straightforward murder because someone was jealous or drunk, and even that was a rare occurrence. He had been elected sheriff in Venice, Illinois for the fourth time when he had to report for army duty. But he hoped to be home again soon. Not that he was missing Ethel: she'd be fully occupied running the fan club of the local baseball team. What he liked was making sure folks in his county were law-abiding, going out and about talking to people, looking in at Bill's Bar for a quick coffee.
Donovan's jeep braked outside the door, squealing. The sergeant was a jerky driver, possibly because he was more used to handling bridle and reins back home on his ranch in Arizona. He got out and nodded to his passenger to follow him.
'Morgan, sir,' he announced a few moments later.
'Read that, sergeant.' Ashburner handed Donovan the autopsy report. Donovan read it, his expression grim. Ashburner turned to the young soldier. 'Dennis Morgan, Army Signal Corps, is that right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You know a German Fraulein called Karin Rembach?'
'Yes, sir. Karin works in the dry cleaners' at Uncle Tom's.'
'Your girlfriend?'
'Yes, sir.' The young soldier continued standing to attention.
'Sit down, boy, sit down. Do you know why you're here?'
'No, sir.' Nervously, Morgan took a chair.
'When did you last see Karin?'
'Four days ago. We went to the movies.'
'Will you be seeing each other again soon?'
Dennis Morgan hesitated. 'Tomorrow, sir, I hope.'
The captain noticed the almost imperceptible hesitation. Was it the soldier's uncertainty at facing a superior officer? Or did he know that Karin Rembach was dead? That would be a very suspicious factor. Neither the military newspaper Stars and Stripes nor the military radio station AFN had reported the murder. The US Army media weren't interested in dead German girls, and it was unlikely that Morgan read the German papers.
Sergeant Donovan intervened. 'Your Karin's very pretty, eh?'
'Yes, sergeant, very.'
Donovan adopted a confidential tone. 'Good in bed, is she, Dennis?'
The young soldier blushed. 'I don't know, sergeant. I mean, yes, I guess so.'
'What do you mean, you don't know?' Donovan persisted.
'I meant to say I don't know what you mean by "good in bed", sergeant.'
'Because you're not sleeping with her. We know that from her colleague Gerti. Because she won't let you touch her. In spite of your invitations and gifts. Because that makes you disappointed and furious. Because you're afraid it might get out. A word from her would make you look ridiculous, right?'
'I don't know, sergeant.'
Am I right?' bellowed Donovan.
Dennis Morgan bent his head. 'We're good friends,' he said quietly. 'Captain, what does all this mean? Why am I here?'
Sergeant Donovan took him by the shoulders. 'Because your Karin is dead.'