Authors: Pierre Frei
'Mike, listen, I've been thinking some more about these murdered women. We still can't dismiss the possibility that an American did it. What do you think?'
'I think they were only a couple of German whores. You want one of our brave boys to pay for than'
'Remember what that German inspector said: the war is over, and murder will be punished again, regardless of who committed it, an American or a German.'
'We had a case in 1944, when we were marching through the Rhineland. One of our boys got a bit too rough with a German girl. Rape and murder, the provost marshal called it. The little tart had opened her legs of her own free will. And you couldn't really blame the GI for putting his hands around her neck in the heat of the moment. Anyway, what we did was, we gave him a minor flesh wound and sent him to the back of the lines as wounded. That gave our colonel time to get him transferred to the Pacific. A practical solution, don't you think, sir?'
'Can I ask you a question in return, Mike? What would you do if the two murdered women were members of our Women's Army Corps and the murderer was a German?'
'Shoot the bastard,' replied Donovan in surprise.
The radio-telephone came on. 'Patrol Three, Miller. We picked up a Russki in Block Eighteen. Claims he's looking for a man called K less, something like that. Me and Joe think it's a funny sort of story, captain. What do we do with the guy?'
Absolutely nothing, Miller, if you want to observe the agreement between the four powers.' Ashburner went off in the jeep. Problems with their Soviet allies were the last thing he needed. The patrol car was standing on the Wannsee bridge, barring the way of an open, white BMW two-seater sports car against which the tall, lean figure of a Russian officer was lounging. He had taken off his cap, revealing wiry fair hair, he was smoking a cigarette with a long cardboard tip, and looking with amusement at Corporal Miller and the driver, Joe, who were waiting a little way off, hands hovering close to their pistol holsters.
Ashburner introduced himself formally. 'Captain Ashburner. United States Army Military Police.'
'Major Berkov, staff officer with City Commandant General Bersarin. Extremely pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Ashburner.' The Russian spoke an elegant British English that made Ashburner's American accent seem unsophisticated.
The captain quickly ran over all relevant agreements and orders in his mind. They stipulated that members of the armed forces of the four Allies in Berlin had free access at any time to the other Allies' sectors of occupation. so long as they were wearing uniform. '1 hope my men have treated you correctly, Major Berkov. You're looking for a man called Kless?'
'Not Kless, Kleist. I don't think your men entirely understoond me. He committed suicide somewhere in the vicinity, and I'm looking for his grave.'
A suicide by the name of Kleist. That would be a case for the German police. I'll radio my duty officer and tell him to get in touch with the Germans at once. They can send someone to help you search. Did you know him?'
'Know whom?' Berkov did not understand at first, then it slowly dawned on him. 'Heinrich von Kleist? Oh, no. He and his mistress Henriette Vogel committed suicide here on the banks of the Kleiner Wannsee in November 1811. A German poet from an old aristocratic Prussian family.'
'Well, you certainly caught me out there, major.' murmured Ashburner, with some embarrassment.
'Nonsense, captain. I happen to know about it quite by chance, because I've studied a little German literature,' said Berkov apologetically. Ashburner beckoned to an old man, who showed them the steps leading down to the river bank. 'I'm particularly fond of his plays The Broken Jug and The Prince of Homburg,' said Berkov, taking some photos of the monument.
'Fabulous car.' Ashburner pointed to the BMW when they were back up in the street again.
'I found it on a country estate, hidden under bales of straw. I'm planning to take it home with me - the spoils of war. Privilege of the victor. Would you like to try it, captain?' The major invitingly opened the low-slung car door.
'That's an offer I can't refuse. Corporal Miller, carry on with your patrol. Joe can drive my jeep back to the station.' Ashburner got in. He indicated a small gold plaque with the letters M.G. on the dashboard. 'Initials of the previous owner?'
'Very possibly.' Berkov turned the sports car and stepped on the gas. Ashburner enjoyed the acceleration. They had both taken their caps off to let the warm air waft around their heads. They glanced at one another and found themselves laughing like little boys. It was a beautiful, late-summer's day. The houses in the western suburbs were hardly damaged at all, and children were playing in the front gardens. Only a few boarded-up windows and traces left by shrapnel on the carriageway were reminders of the war.
'Must have been a good life here once,' said Ashburner.
'Give the Nemzis a few years and they'll be doing better than ever,' Berkov called back.
The picture changed the further they drove into the city. Rubble and ruins lined the streets. People were clearing up everywhere. Chalk and brick dust hung in the air, and the people seemed more depressed and tired than beyond the city centre.
The Russian stopped on a corner. 'My name's Maxim Petrovich. What's yours?'
'John.'
All right. John, where can I take you?'
'To Uncle Tom. I'll show you the way. I'd like to invite you for a drink, Maxim Petrovich, but I have a date. Another time, maybe?'
'I'd like that.' The major turned, and drove Ashburner back to Uncle Tom at breakneck speed. Jutta was already waiting at the entrance to the prohibited zone. 'What a pretty woman. Congratulations, John,' said Berkov, smiling. Ashburner got out, and his new friend raced away.
Jutta came to meet him. 'Hello, John. Why did you send that dishy man away? He could be dangerous even without a sports car.' She enjoyed teasing him a little.
He took her seriously. 'Major Berkov? I'll invite him along if you'd like to meet him.'
She took his arm. 'Not in the least! It's you I have a date with, remember? I'm ravenously hungry too.'
'I did some shopping.' John Ashburner was glad to be back in safe waters.
They passed the sentry on guard and entered the prohibited zone. Jutta pointed to the tall fence. 'It's terrible, that fence. When I think of that poor woman in the barbed wire. . .'
'It must have been a dreadful shock for you.' She nodded, silently, and he sensed that she would rather not talk about it.
He had laid the table in his living room that morning, with a vase of roses in the centre. He had bribed the gardener of the Harnack House with a packet of cigarettes to plunder one of the flower beds. 'Oh, how lovely,' she said, delighted. 'I last saw roses at my sister's wedding. After that, no one grew anything but potatoes and vegetables. Even in the public squares.'
'I'd like you to take them home.'
'Thank you, John, that's really nice of you.'
'I thought we might cook together.' He handed her an apron and put one on too. Hers bore a picture of a white rabbit with a chef's hat. His had a caricature of a bulldog with a wooden spoon in its mouth. She thought them both rather silly.
The US quartermaster had installed refrigerators in the requisitioned apartments. Ashburner took out a bottle of white wine and filled two glasses. 'frost. That's what you say here, isn't it?'
'frost, John.' She took a sip. It was ages since she'd last drunk wine, though Sergeant Panelli sometimes stood her a beer in Club 48. 'What delicious things are we going to have?'
'Shrimp salad, steak with sweetcorn, we'll drink red wine with that, Chianti. Ice cream for dessert. OK?'
'Wonderful. What shall I do?'
'Open the can of shrimp and the jar of mayonnaise, please.'
'Oh, never mind that! If you have eggs, oil, lemons and mustard we can make the mayonnaise ourselves.'
Her own whisk was still hanging in its place in the kitchen cupboard. The ingredients she needed were there too. She put the yolk of an egg into a bowl, mixed it with pepper, salt, a few drops of lemon juice and a little mustard, and added a pinch of sugar. He was watching her attentively; it was an excuse to keep looking at her. She bent over the bowl, and puffed an annoying lock of hair away from her forehead. There was something very touching about the sight. The groove in the nape of her neck, which was bent at a pretty angle, aroused feelings in him that he couldn't really define. Her youthful figure in her light dress made her seem both vulnerable and desirable. At home, Ethel went around in hair curlers and barely visited the kitchen to get herself a Coke from the fridge. The two women were worlds apart.
Jutta slowly trickled oil into the bowl and worked it loosely with the whisk. 'The oil and egg yolk have to be at room temperature, that's the secret of it,' she explained. Before his eyes, she created a wonderful thick, yellow mayonnaise and mixed the shrimp into it. Then she piled it all on lettuce leaves in two dishes.
He heated the canned sweetcorn with a little butter and put it aside. He had bought the grooved, cast-iron grill pan in the PX especially for this evening, along with the aprons. 'It has to be very hot, so the steaks don't braise all the way through but grill fast. Here, let's test it.' He splashed a little water in the pan, and it immediately fizzled out. 'Careful now!' The steaks hissed as they went into the pan. He looked very serious and was concentrating hard on what he was doing, like a little boy with his electric train set. She did not try to fight off the tender feelings arising in her. 'Quarter of a minute each side to seal the steaks. Then two to four minutes each side, depending on the thickness. When the juices show like red pearls, they're au point, as the French say.' She could see that he was proud of his expertise.
'Well done, John. That's amazing.' She had found a tube of anchovy paste and was mixing it with butter. We can put this on the steaks.'
'We work together pretty well, don't you think?' It was a clumsy declaration of love, and all the better for that. He opened the Chianti and put the bottle on the table.
She took off her apron, and sensed that he was looking at her figure in the light dress, an admiring rather than offensive look. I hope he doesn't think my hips are too broad, she thought. He held her chair for her. She liked his chivalrous gesture, and thanked him with a small smile.
'Tell me about your home,' she asked as they ate. '1 know almost nothing about America.'
'Neither do I really. I know Venice, Illinois. Five thousand inhabitants, two churches, Bill's Bar on Main Street. And the police station house. Green hills and pasture around the town. I grew up on our farm: my brother Jim runs it now. I'm the local sherriff. A peaceful job: not much happens in the country.'
'What about your wife?'
He gave a resigned smile. 'Not much happens with her either. We don't have children. Ethel hated the idea of pregnancy.'
'Jochen wanted a Volkswagen first, and then a son. He never had either. A Polish marksman shot him. He was on the latrine. He didn't even get to die a hero's death.'
'I wasn't in the war itself. They sent me over here afterwards, when they needed police to keep order. Once the fighting stops guys can get stupid ideas into their heads.' He poured more wine. 'You know, I've always wanted just to talk like this - never mind what about. The main thing is to have someone listening.'
'Red check tablecloths and candles in wine bottles, wasn't that how your little German-style restaurant was going to look?'
'You remembered?'
'Of course, I like the idea.'
'Will you have a cognac?' he asked after the meal.
'No, thank you, John. After all that wine it would knock me right out.' She went close to him and raised her face. He hesitated before taking her in his arms and kissing her. He had almost forgotten what it was like. He felt her warm, soft body and breathed in her perfume. It seemed to him that they stood like that for a delicious eternity. Then she moved gently away from him. 'We have plenty of time, don't we?' she said quietly. It was a promise. Elated, he drove her home in the jeep and waited until she had disappeared into the building.
The door to the Konigs' room was open. Late as it was, they were drinking schnapps with Brandenburg. Jutta stopped. 'How's your son?' she asked.
'They're doing the second operation tomorrow to pull the skin over the stump.' Pretty Frau Konig wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
'Now, now, Ilse. He'll soon get a brand-new hand with all the latest clever inventions. The surgeon says the Americans have made amazing progress in that area.'
I do hope he'll make a quick recovery. Goodnight.'
Brandenburg followed her into the kitchen. He was slightly tipsy. 'Been brought home in the jeep again? What's the going rate - a packet of cigarettes a trick?' She managed to hit his cheek even in the dark. Her hand connected with a loud slap, and his glasses fell to the floor. He bent down and felt about on the rug for them. When she lit the candle he had them on again. 'Well, congratulations, you have a good aim.' She ignored him, and filled a vase with water for the roses.