Berlin: A Novel (25 page)

Dietrich was embarrassed. 'My father-in-law - Captain Ashburner,' he introduced them.

'Pleased to meet you. I'm sorry, sir, I don't smoke. Thank you for the invitation, ma'am, but I have a dinner date.' Ashburner turned to Dietrich. 'With an acquaintance from the Soviet commandant's HQ, who may be able to help us.'

'I'll show you out.' Dietrich hopped to the door on one leg: it didn't seem to bother him at all. Ashburner stopped for a moment in the living room, looking at the framed photograph on the sideboard. It showed a laughing Klaus Dietrich with the epaulettes of a colonel. The Knight's Cross with oak leaves stood out brightly from the black uniform of the Panzer troops.

And I didn't know that either,' said Ashburner, impressed, as he swung himself up into his jeep.

Ashburner quickly fetched the statements and photographs relating to the two murder cases from his office and put them in the jeep. Major Berkov had surprised him by phoning. 'Do you know the "Seagull" in Luisenstrasse? Through the Brandenburg Gate, left into Neue Wilhelmstrasse and across the Spree.'

'I don't know it, but I'll find it,' Ashburner promised.

'Shall we say eight?'

'Eight it is.' Ashburner was pleased that Berkov had called. He liked the cultivated Russian, so different from his earlier assumptions about their Red allies. He drove from Uncle Tom through the Grunewald to Halensee and the Kurfiirstendamm, which was in the British sector. The tower of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church with its top broken off rose into the sky creating a bizarre spectacle. Tauentzienstrasse was full of rubble and ruins too. There were people clearing up everywhere. Women with grey faces under grey headscarves were knocking the remains of mortar off bricks. Elderly men passed them from hand to hand, conveying them to horsedrawn carts or trucks running on wood gas. It was amazing, what these half-starved Germans were doing.

He thought of the inspector and his family. Their life must be damn hard. On the other hand, hadn't the Germans brought it on themselves? Who had begun that crazy war, and who had lost it? Or were the Dietrichs just victims? Wouldn't it have been the same for him and Ethel and everyone else in Venice if Hitler had won the war? The idea of watching Ethel grating raw potatoes into boiling water at the stove amused him. He decided to tell her the story sometime, just to see her reaction. He braked sharply as he came to a shell crater overgrown with weeds in the middle of the street and drove around it.

He went along the overpass and then left towards Potsdamer Platz, where the Soviet-occupied sector of the city began, past the bustling black market in the square to the ruins of the German Reichstag, which he gathered had been a kind of parliament, and through the Brandenburg Gate. A red flag with the hammer and sickle was flying above it. Chunks of plaster crunched under his tyres as he stopped in Luisenstrasse.

The Berlin Artists' Club had been housed in what was once Prince Billow's town palace. Soviet cultural officers had named it after Chekhov's The Seagull, an image of which adorned the curtain of the Moscow artists' theatre. But Berlin's artists came less for the culture than because, thanks to the artistically minded Russians, there was plenty to eat here, and no disapproving waiter snipping bits off your ration cards.

Maxim Petrovich Berkov was waiting for his guest at a table half-hidden behind pot plants. 'Good evening, John. How are you?'

'I'm always feeling fine after working hours.'

And your beautiful girlfriend?'

Ashburner grinned. 'I'm not sure if it was the white BMW or its driver that impressed her most.'

'I'd be happy to take the lady for a drive.'

'I'd sooner you didn't. The glorious Red Army has made enough conquests. Maxim Petrovich, can we talk freely here?'

The major reached into the small bay tree behind him, and after a little groping about produced a small microphone from among the leaves. He broke the fine feed line with a jerk. A loose contact. Such sloppy work,' he remarked dryly.

The waiter brought the menu, and Berkov ordered a bottle of Crimean champagne. 'Yes, major,' said the waiter, and clicked his heels.

'Hasn't been properly re-educated yet,' remarked Berkov, amused. 'Usually the Germans adapt very quickly. Take Russian Eggs, for instance, that savoury little starter - they've renamed it Soviet Eggs. I can recommend it, by the way. And how about saddle of venison to follow? My boss's contribution to the cultural life of Berlin. General Bersarin doesn't just enjoy racing around the city on his looted Harley Davidson, he goes hunting in Goring's old preserves. He decides when the season ends. Oh, by the way, do you remember our first meeting?'

'You were looking for the grave of that man Kleist.'

'I've been reading up on the subject. She wasn't his mistress - Henriette was a romantic girl who made a suicide pact with the poet.'

Ashburner was glad to see the waiter bringing the champagne and their starters. It meant he didn't have to say anything on a subject where he was out of his depth. 'What's your sport?' he asked, changing the subject to be on the safe side.

'We played tennis at the Frunse military academy. Marshal Tukhachev- sky was keen to make his young officers gentlemen in the Western model. Stalin had him executed. An irreplaceable loss to the Red Army.'

'You're very outspoken, Maxim Petrovich.'

Ah, well, the microphone installed by our comrades from the Kommissariat just happens to be out of order.'

'What Kommissariat is that?'

'The Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennikh Del, probably better known to you as the NKVD. The People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs.'

That brings me to my request. I need your help. My German colleague, Inspector Dietrich, is investigating the murders of two women. He wants to compare them with a similar pre-war murder case, which means questioning a former CID officer called Wilhelm Schluter, at present an inmate of the Brandenburg penitentiary. To do that he needs a visitor's permit from the NKVD.

'Two murders?'

'Of two pretty, blonde young women.' Ashburner handed him the records of the investigations and the photographs of the dead women. Berkov instantly recognized Karin. His face turned stony.

'Is something the matter?' asked John Ashburner. Berkov heard him as if from a great distance.

'No, no, it's nothing.' He hid his face behind the notes, but he wasn't reading them. He was thinking of those few weeks of passion with her, hearing her warm voice: 'Come here, Maxim Petrovich.' He felt her soft body again, breathed in her pleasantly sharp perfume. He would have liked to groan out loud, but he said only, 'I believe I can help your German colleague. I play chess with Colonel Nekrassov of the NKVD. I'll let the colonel win; that will put him in a good mood.'

Master Sergeant Washington Roberts was waiting behind the shops. A narrow access for delivery trucks led there from Wilskistrasse. This was also where the big, zinc garbage bins stood. Their lids refused to close, they were so full of garbage from the requisitioned shops and apartments. Chocolate bars that had just been broken into, half empty cans of baked beans, luncheon meat, condensed milk - the Americans threw away scraps that would have fed a hungry family for days. It all went to the American garbage dump and, by order of the chief army doctor, had quicklime tipped over it before the bulldozers ploughed it in. Even the rats couldn't dig for it.

Gerti Kruger waved to her brown skinned boyfriend from the back door. He waved back, with a broad grin. They would eat and dance at Club 48, and later go back to her place to make love. Her landlady was happy to close both eyes in return for a packet of Lucky Strikes.

Gerti was looking forward to the evening, and she wasn't going to let even Ziesel the garbage truck driver spoil it for her. Ziesel came in just before the dry cleaners' closed, to collect the empty chemicals containers. Sergeant Chang had lined them up ready.

'Get a move on, do, we're about to close.'

'Oh, so the lady can't wait to see what her black stallion's going to stick into her.'

'My Washington at least has something to offer a woman. Unlike you, you feeble wimp. Can't even get your little finger up!'

'When we get to have a say in things again, you'll be the first we shave bald, you Yankee whore.'

Gerti laughed out loud. 'You're too stupid even to shave a head. You see to your garbage bins, they're brimming over.'

'Cunt. Yankee tart,' muttered Ziesel as he went out. 'Good evening, sergeant,' he ingratiatingly greeted the American.

Washington Roberts watched Ziesel lift several empty bins off the truck and heave the full ones up on it. The sergeant's eyes widened. A slender white hand was hanging out from under the lid of one of the containers.

The black Packard limousine drove down Unter den Eichen with its blue light flashing, a corporal from the Women's Army Corps at the wheel. The US city commandant was in a hurry. He sat in the back with his face set like stone, trying to digest the news that had reached him a quarter of an hour earlier.

The sentry at the entrance to the military hospital saluted. The limousine stopped outside the main building. A captain of the US Medical Corps was waiting for the general. 'May I lead the way, sir?'

'Please, doctor.' General Henry C. Abbot followed the doctor down a narrow flight of steps. The bright neon lights of the mortuary met them.

Several uniformed men were gathered around an autopsy table in the background. Colonel Tucker moved away from the group. 'I hope it was right to let you know, sir.'

'Of course. Don't talk nonsense.'

'This is Captain John Ashburner of the Military Police, sir,' Tucker introduced the man. Ashburner saluted. Abbot offered his hand. Tucker indicated the head of the German-American Employment Office. And you know Mr Chalford.'

The general nodded. 'Hello, Curtis.'

Curtis S. Chalford passed one hand awkwardly over his thin fair hair. His rosy face with its pale-blue eyes was distressed. He was clearly at a loss. He cleared his throat. 'They called me because they could tell at once that she was a German employed by the army. Of course I immediately knew who she was. I'm very sorry, general.'

The city commandant bent over the marble slab. They were all silent. The dead woman had been covered up to her chin with a white sheet. Her regular features, surrounded by blonde hair, looked calm and grave. Captain Ashburner broke the silence. 'General Abbot, I have to ask you formally: Did you know this woman?'

Henry C. Abbot silently bowed his head. It was both confirmation and a last goodbye.

HENRIETTE

'DETTA!' SHIMMERING SUNLIGHT filters through the branches of the old trees, falling like a cap of invisibility on the blonde hair of the girl in the grass. 'Detta!' The girl ducks down even further into the long grass. 'Time to get changed, Detta!' Get changed? Why? What's wrong with her tartan blouse and jodhpurs?

'Detta!' The voice is dangerously close. The girl picks up one of last year's fir cones and flings it into the bushes in a high arc. The sound will lure Adelheid the wrong way. Detta doesn't want to get changed. Getting changed will mean a bath, nothing wrong with that, but a bath will inevitably be followed by hair brushing, quick and hard, and the stupid frilly dress that makes her look like a twelve-year-old even though she's fourteen.

Anyway, why all this fuss? Just because visitors are coming from Potsdam? 'Important visitors,' as Adelheid puts it, pursing her lips elegantly. Detta carefully peers above the grass. The governess has turned her back. A good opportunity to disappear among the rhododendrons - three strides will do it - and run to the stables. If she saddles Henry quickly enough she can be off long before Adelheid appears.

Oh, how stupid: Adelheid is already standing by the horsebox, patting Henry. There's no getting past her. Or is there? Hans-Georg suddenly appears and starts talking to the governess, leads her away from the stable. Her brother is sixteen, but his smooth, dark head of hair makes him seem older. How good he looks. He turns briefly, gives her a conspiratorial grin, and leads Adelheid a little further away. Detta quietly opens the door of the box. No time to saddle the horse. She quickly gets the snaffle on Henry and mounts him bareback. Duck her head at the door, dig her heels in outside, and off they gallop. No, not along the gravel drive. Hans-Georg and Adelheid are walking there, but straight ahead into the trees.