Berlin: A Novel (56 page)

All went smoothly. She managed to elude the bottom-pinching to some extent. Clark Gable radiated raw masculinity, and predictably won Loretta Young. The cinema closed at eleven, and the girls changed. 'Never, for heaven's sake, forget your Yank pass,' Gisela warned. 'Or they'll take you in for being out after curfew.'

'Got it here.' Marlene slapped her shoulder bag with the flat of her hand.

'Hey, there's a hole in your bag. Listen, my Erich works with leather goods. Bet you he's got a patch of leather somewhere he could mend it with for you.'

'No, I want to leave the bag like that, as a memento. But thanks for the offer. See you tomorrow.'

She didn't have far to go: past the Yank guard, out of the prohibited zone, right into Argentinische Allee. The war meant that the second carriageway had never been built, and so a broad strip of sand overgrown with weeds ran parallel to the street. She crossed it to reach the buildings on the other side, and had to be careful not to stumble in a rabbit hole.

A motorbike came rattling through the dark. Right in front of her, its headlight flared. She swerved aside just in time. 'You lunatic,' she swore as the rider moved away. The headlight was switched off. The motorbike turned. She could hear it coming back towards her. This time it roared past without any light on, only just missing her.

She didn't wait for it to turn again, but raced over the pavement to the nearest building. The front door was not locked. Gasping, she leaned against it from the inside. She gradually calmed down, and became aware that someone else was breathing heavily. She switched on her torch. An American soldier and his girl were standing on the stairs. The girl was a step above the man, leaning against the wall. She had pulled up her dress and wrapped one bare leg around his hip. She was moaning in time to his movements.

'Sorry.' Marlene made her escape. All was quiet outside now. She reached the door of her building unmolested, and opened it.

'Rather late home, lady.'

She jumped. She knew that voice. Quickly, she climbed the stairs. He followed her. It seemed an eternity before she got the door of the apartment open. 'Goodnight, Herr Muhlberger.' She slammed it shut. In the bathroom, she ran water into the washbasin - thanks to the Americans, the water mains were functioning in the Onkel Tom quarter - and dipped her face into it. The chorine stung her eyes.

She fell asleep, exhausted. She dreamed. Franz had put a protective arm around her. 'Go ahead ...' she murmured happily.

Muhlberger seemed to guess her comings and goings. He always happened to be in the stairwell, scratching his crotch and making suggestive remarks. And so little to say for himself when his wife's around!' Frau Muller from the second floor showed a tiny gap between thumb and forefinger. All the same - don't you have anyone to look after you?'

Of course I do.'

'Mine's in Russia.' Frau Muller didn't expect an answer.

Was Franz in Russia too? She remembered how she had last seen him, tied to a post in the cellar, being tortured by the Gestapo. She didn't like to think of it.

'Franz Giese: please get in touch. Lene is living in Onkel Toms Hutte, 198 Argentinische Allee, 3rd floor,' she wrote on the once-white lid of a shoebox. She fixed it to the entrance of the apartment building where he'd lived.

The lid of the shoebox followed her into her dreams. Suppose Franz didn't pass the door of his old building any more because he'd long ago found another place to live? Or suppose someone had torn the message down? Rain could have washed the writing off. Wind could have blown the cardboard away.

Every other day she set off for Schoneberg. The message still hung in its place, unchanged and obviously unread. Her secret hope of finding a note stuck behind it with his answer, with a brief explanation of why he hadn't been able to visit her yet, began to fade.

On Wednesday, yet again, she went home disappointed. The tram was overcrowded, as usual. The man behind her was rubbing his penis against her hip. She turned round, which wasn't easy. 'Here you are, then.' She rammed her knee into his crotch. His face went pale with the pain.

A woman got in at the next stop. She had hollow cheeks and wore a headscarf. Her eyes wandered over Marlene and the other passengers, and then, incredulous, returned to Marlene. Her voice was quiet and hesitant at first, as if she had to convince herself. 'Frau Camp Commandant Neubert, isn't it? What a surprise!' The voice grew louder. 'So where's your riding crop, Frau camp commandant?'

Marlene understood. The woman was mixing her up with Gertrud Werner, the appalling Hauptsturmfiihrerin. In her tormented memory, the similarities between them were blurred. For her, Marlene and Frau Werner were one and the same person. Assurances and explanations would do no good. She'd get out at the next stop.

Accusingly, the woman turned to them all. She used to beat you mercilessly until you couldn't even whimper.'

The other passengers pricked up their ears. A few showed signs of sympathy. Most turned away. They didn't want anything to do with this kind of thing. But they were all listening.

'She enjoyed strapping you into a chair, then her doctor colleague could root about until your insides burned like fire. She'd lever your teeth apart and pour chemicals down your throat so that her criminal friend with his doctorate could study their effects. If you were lucky you didn't die, you just developed a few harmless symptoms.' The woman tore the scarf off her head. Her skull was bald and fiery red. Allow me to introduce myself, ladies and gentlemen,' she cried. 'Lilo Goldblatt, doctor of medicine, formerly a guinea pig in Blumenau concentration camp. Do you remember me, Frau camp commandant?'

'Ought to be hanged!' trumpeted the man who had been molesting Marlene. 'Turn her in to the police!' shouted someone else.

I have to get out of here, thought Marlene -- how many times in her life had she told herself that? She took a deep breath and jumped from the moving tram. The hedge between the tracks and the pavement cushioned her fall. She picked herself up and ran as she used to run in Rubenstrasse, when you had to be first to the corner to get a bit of bread from the Salvation Army's barrow. She'd been eight then. She noticed her breath coming faster and her legs moving more slowly. She was thirty-three now.

When she saw the cemetery gate she put on a final spurt. She came to a halt in the middle of a company of mourners beside an open grave, and smiled apologetically at the pastor. She had nearly knocked him into it. The man of God bowed his head with Christian forgiveness, and continued his sermon.

For the moment, she was safe from her pursuers. But now what? She considered her position. Suppose they went on looking for her, and ended up finding her? She'd have to offer long explanations. She didn't need to explain anything in Paris. A call to Capitaine de Bertin would be enough. But you can't do that to Franz, an inner voice told her.

The pastor was holding the Bible before him in both hands, praising the character of the dear departed, while Marlene looked around. She seemed to be in the clear. The word Fiihrer kept coming up in the priest's address. 'One of our very best ... always on the alert, ready to make decisions ... always keeping his eye open for signals ... now let us pray . . .' But Fiihrer, of course, her confused mind registered, meant all sorts of other things, including a train driver, and this was a train driver's funeral. As the mourners left the cemetery an old gentleman, taking her for one of the party, shook her hand with fervour. 'One of the best engine drivers we ever had.'

Marlene shook his hand vigorously in return. 'He was indeed. Listen, how do I get back from here to Onkel Tom?' She was given a long description, with many alternatives, and chose the simplest.

There was a letter waiting for her at home. The postal service had been running again for the last few days. When she saw the sturdy handwriting on the envelope she uttered a cry of joy. She tore it open, took out the sheet of lined paper, and read:

Dear Fraulein Lene

I found your message and now I am answering it. So we are both still alive, which is more than can be said for many. I was a soldier in the war in Denmark, except that it wasn't really a war there, which was fine by me, I had quite enough of war with the first one. After a few weeks as prisoners they let us go, and now I'm in Berlin again, in Ruhleben, I'm working as a driver for the British. I will come and see you on Sunday. Is four o'clock all right for you?

With warm regards

Franz Giese

She laughed and wept, because he was alive and coming to see her on Sunday, and he was the only person she really knew, none of the others counted. She thought of the haulage business with the three-wheeled van, and maybe a bigger truck later. It's going to be all right, she thought.

'Good news?' asked Gisela on Saturday as they were getting into their lilac taffeta dresses and fixing the horrible bows in their hair.

'Very good,' Marlene beamed. 'He's coming tomorrow afternoon. Do me a favour? Ask Rita to take my shift.'

'OK, lover.' Gisela had picked that up from Mae West.

'Corporal Pringle doesn't have to know that I'm playing hooky on Sunday.'

'Don't you worry. He's got eyes only for Detlev and the new knitting pattern.'

Marlene put the sling of the refreshments tray around her shoulders. This was her turn for the centre aisle, which meant twice the work, because she had to show the audience in on both sides, left and right. She put up with a couple of pinches. Nothing could trouble her today.

A tall, lanky captain bought two bags of popcorn and gave one to the woman with him. Marlene showed them to their seats. The captain thanked her with a smile, which his companion didn't seem to like at all. Don't worry, I'm not aiming to take him away from you, thought Marlene in high spirits.

She had pocketed a chocolate bar from her tray. It would buy her a couple of briquettes from the fuel merchant who supplied the shopping street and the cinema. She put them in the bathroom stove late on Sunday morning, and soon it was bubbling comfortably away. The Camay soap came from the cinema toilets. It smelled divine and foamed wonderfully.

A bottle of sparkling wine was cooling under running water. It had cost most of her half of a CARE parcel, but would go very well with the army ration of canned bacon. She had wrapped the bacon around prunes from an earlier distribution. Crackers and peanuts completed the luxurious tidbits.

She put on Madame Schiaparelli's diaphanous underwear and the expensive silk stockings. She'd quite forgotten that she had a good figure and long, slender legs. The high-heeled shoes set them off beautifully. The elegant Printemps dress was as good as new. Parisian chic in Onkel Toms Hiitte. How Franz would stare!

The clock showed four on the dot when he knocked. With every step to the door, her anticipation grew. She slowly opened it. He had a pot of geraniums under his arm, and swallowed with embarrassment.

'So there you are.'

'Good day, Fraulein Lene,' he said stiffly. 'How are you?'

'Fine, thanks. Now, let's forget the formalities. Come on in.'

He put the pot of geraniums down. 'Pretty place here.'

'Yours in Schoneberg was prettier. Well, we can make up for all that. We're still young, aren't we?' She poured the sparkling wine. 'Cheers, Franz.'

'Cheers, Lene.' His awkwardness was melting away. He sat down. 'I still can't believe the two of us are here.'

'The three of us.' She pointed at the rutting stag over the chest of drawers. He looked at the picture as if he were seeing it for the first time. She drank in the sight of him. He had rounded out a little, and it suited him. The dimple in his chin was slightly deeper. His hairline had receded a bit. His brown eyes were the same as ever. They bent a calm and honest gaze on the world.