The Pathfinder (15 page)

It was worlds apart from the grim struggle that was going on in Berlin. Lili Leicht had called England a safe little island and the inference, as he'd seen it, that it was due to geography still rankled. England was only safe because she had fought long and hard to stay that way, and he'd done his share of the fighting, come to that. He finished the letter and turned to the one that Celia had written. Unlike his mother, she was careful not to assume anything. Its tone was light: she wrote about a new play that had opened in London, about her brother's promotion in the Navy. The Sunday lunch with his parents was mentioned only briefly. He could see her face and hear her voice, as though she were speaking the words to him, but she, too, seemed to belong to another world.

He put both letters away in a drawer until he could find the time and energy to answer them, and lay down on his bed to try and get some sleep. He was tired after being on duty all night but, even so, he lay awake for a while, listening to the sound of the planes landing and taking off in the distance, identifying them by the sounds of their engines. They never disturbed him. Like everybody else on the station, he was well used to it and the past nine years of his life had been lived against a background of aircraft noise. He found himself thinking of Lili Leicht.

He had thought of her quite frequently over the past weeks. She had made him extremely angry with her remarks, but he acknowledged now that they had been talking from two quite different points of view and that she was perfectly entitled to hers. Nico Kocharian had implied that he was narrow-minded and prejudiced, when he'd always considered himself the reverse. It was a grim idea and one that nagged at him. Not that he cared a row of beans for the chap's opinion – he was a fairly odd customer. He wondered just what he was doing skulking about Berlin. The publishing venture could be perfectly genuine, and then again, it could be a cooked-up story. Black-marketeering was more likely, or some kind of skulduggery. He'd said he'd worked for the Army Intelligence Corps during the war. Maybe that was true. Maybe not. He wouldn't trust him at any price.

Nico's business card must still be in his wallet, since he'd forgotten to throw it out. He got up and fished it out.
Phönix Verlag, Phoenix Publishers, Édition Phénix.
He toyed with it for a moment, tapping it against his hand. An address was printed below and a telephone number. It would be rather interesting to see if the place even existed. Tomorrow he had a day off. He'd go into the city and take a look. Kocharian had said it was in the Russian sector so perhaps he'd call on the Leichts afterwards. Take something for the boy, Rudi, to make amends for having lost his temper. And he ought to apologize again properly to the sister.

The Volkswagen taxi driver had difficulty in locating the street; there were few names and fewer numbers. It was a simple matter, though, as it happened, to find number fifteen because it was the only building in the street still more or less standing and apparently occupied. A card, the same as the one he held in his hand, had been tacked up by the door. The bell beside it produced no sound or response and so, after a moment or two, Harrison tried the handle and opened the door. He stepped into a dark hallway with another door, slightly ajar, leading off it. Someone was talking fast in German in the room beyond, and he recognized Nico Kocharian's voice. He waited for a moment until there was silence and pushed the door open further.

The Armenian, seated at a shabby desk, was replacing a telephone receiver on its cradle. He looked up and Harrison caught his startled expression before it was replaced at once by a beaming smile. ‘Michael, my dear chap, how nice to see you. I
am
surprised to find you here. Do come and sit down.' He was round the desk, bringing forward a chair and dusting it with his handkerchief. ‘Not exactly luxurious premises, I'm afraid, but that's Berlin for you. We all have to make do with what we can get. Coffee? I have some of the real stuff, believe it or not.'

‘No, thank you.' He sat down on the dusted chair and looked about him. Apart from the desk there was a table with an ancient typewriter and shelves containing rows of books – school textbooks, so far as he could make out, and all in German.

Kocharian had returned to his chair behind the desk. The gold case of Turkish cigarettes was held out politely and, as before, declined. ‘So, Michael, what brings you here?'

He lit one of his Player's. ‘Curiosity, you could say.'

‘About what, exactly?' A cigarette was fitted into the ebony holder and lit with the gold lighter.

‘I wondered how your publishing business was getting along.'

‘I'm flattered you should be so interested. Slowly, slowly is the answer. I've collared a rather distinguished university professor who is very busy editing out great chunks of Nazi propaganda from a history textbook. You wouldn't believe the sort of tripe they put in. There was a Nazi department of education, you know, as early as '34. I have a copy of their teachers' manual somewhere.' He reached behind him and pulled out a book from the shelves. ‘Here we are. Listen to this. I'll give you a rough translation.
Curricula for children should be planned to make them youthful members of the Nazi community. History, geography and biology offer the best opportunities to mould children in the Nazi pattern . . . the lessons in history must be planned to create a foundation of race consciousness. History must be presented to make German children hate Jews, Catholics, Freemasons, Communism, pacificism and the Versailles Treaty. They must be taught that Nazism corrects all evils
, et cetera, et cetera.' He turned the page. ‘Here's a particularly choice passage.
Nazi youth must be told about Jewish usurers. Contrast must be presented between the fate of the German worker under the Jews and that under Nazism . . . German foreign policy from 1890 to 1914 must be taught to disprove the lie that Germany was responsible for the World War . . . German youth must be told that all culture is dependent on race . . . Hitler must be presented as the saviour of Germany
. And so on.'

‘It doesn't surprise me,' Harrison said. ‘Catch them young, isn't that the usual method of indoctrination?'

‘Of course. Tried and true. Whatever else they were, the Nazis weren't fools in that respect.' The Armenian replaced the book and took out another. ‘This is their history textbook. Do listen to the preface:
Dear German Youth, your eyes should gleam with pride and your heart should flame with enthusiasm when you read how the paths of history always have led through sacrifice to victory . . . the Fatherland must be able to rely on its sons and daughters
. And here's another interesting bit in the first chapter.
There is only one will, the will of the Führer who led the Germans from dishonour and bondage to honour and freedom
. All that sort of tosh. It ends with
Sieg Heil!
by the way. Hail Victory!'

‘I imagine it was all pretty effective.'

‘On the mind of a ten-year-old – yes, certainly. The biology textbooks are instructive too. The teachers' manual ordered classes to be planned to aid youth to realize its obligation to keep the inheritance of their fathers pure and to remain true to the eternal laws of blood and race.'

‘They didn't miss a trick.'

‘Not one. No flies on them at all.'

‘Will you be able to find someone to print these new textbooks that you're planning? I thought the Russians had made off with most of the machinery when they arrived here – or smashed it.'

‘Luckily, not all of it. As I told you, I can usually find things in Berlin. I've unearthed a small printing firm who are still in business.'

‘How about paper? Isn't it in rather short supply at the moment?'

‘It's still tricky to find the stuff, of course, but there are always ways and means.'

‘Fortunately for you.'

Kocharian smiled. ‘Fortunately for me.'

The telephone rang and Harrison waited while Kocharian carried on a conversation, this time in Russian which he also seemed to speak like a native. With German, Harrison might have understood the general gist of the exchange; with Russian he hadn't a clue. When the exchange finally ended he said, ‘How on earth did you manage to get a telephone line installed here?'

A wave of the ebony holder. ‘I happen to know someone . . .'

If he was prejudiced, Harrison couldn't help himself. The chap was like some greasy trader in an Eastern souk, rubbing his hands and smiling false smiles. ‘Lucky again?'

‘Not so much luck, perhaps, as knowing the ropes. Berlin is a tricky place if you don't. But then you don't have to worry too much about that, do you? Being with the RAF. Tell me, Michael, how are things going out at Gatow? I gather you've got planes flying in night and day, loaded down with stuff.'

‘We're coping.'

‘Even coal, so they say. That must present quite a challenge. But without it you may as well give up and go home.'

‘We've no intention of giving up.'

‘No, of course not. The Dunkirk spirit and all that. Quite ironic that it should be all about saving Germans this time. The Berliners see the joke, too, you know. They're saying it's bound to work. If the Allies could manage to drop all those bombs on them before, then they should be able to manage to drop enough food. They have quite a good sense of humour, as I think I told you.'

‘Actually, it's all about saving liberty.'

‘Oh, absolutely, old chap. That's usually what these things are about, when it comes down to it. The Yanks are doing a jolly good job too, by the sound of it.'

‘They're certainly pulling their weight.'

‘More than their weight, I hear. But then they've got rather more planes and pilots to call on, haven't they? And rather more money. How's the watch going, by the way?'

It was an abrupt change of tack. ‘It keeps good time.'

‘I thought it might. Have you seen the Leichts lately?'

‘No. I've had no reason to.'

‘Rudi has been ill again. Worse than usual. Lili has been distraught.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘The kid needs proper treatment and lots of good fresh food – all that sort of thing. Virtually impossible here at the moment.'

‘The Soviets are always claiming that they have much better rations for the people in their sector.'

‘In fact it's a big problem for the Russians too. Stocks are right down. It's mostly bread and potatoes these days.'

‘Ever since the blockade started they've been trying to bribe the civilians in the western sectors to sign on with them for extra rations. Get them onto their side.'

‘So I've heard.'

Harrison wondered how Nico managed to look so sleek and well fed on a diet of bread and potatoes. ‘Actually, you don't seem to do too badly.'

Another wave of the holder. ‘I get by. And I do what I can for the Leichts, of course. As soon as my business gets off the ground properly, I'll be able to offer Lili a job. She'll be a great asset, don't you think?'

He said shortly, ‘I imagine so.'

‘Dirk has found some work with the Americans at Tempelhof – loading and unloading aircraft. Not quite his style, but the pay and extra rations help and, of course, Dirk being Dirk, he takes whatever opportunities come his way.'

‘You mean he pilfers stuff?'

‘Oh, pathetic amounts really. A little sugar, some powdered milk, a tin here, a tin there – nothing that would make any difference in the whole scheme but it makes a difference to them. Especially to Rudi.'

‘It's still stealing. And those food supplies are intended for civilians in the western sectors.' As he spoke, Harrison realized how pompous he sounded, and he saw, by the faint smile that crossed Nico Kocharian's face, that he thought so too.

‘Unfortunately, Michael, most Berliners can no longer afford the luxury of such fine, upstanding feelings.'

‘As a matter of fact, we get very little pilfering at Gatow.'

‘Perhaps English grub is less appealing.'

He said drily, ‘Believe it or not, the Germans like our Pom potato best.'

‘Better Pom than Ivankomm – I believe that's what German parents tell their kids in the British sector. The Russians are the big, bad wolves so the children eat up all their dried potatoes.'

‘I don't blame them.' He stood up. ‘Well, I'm glad things are going well.'

‘I wouldn't go as far as to say that, Michael. But it was nice of you to call by. Will you be calling on the Leichts now, by any chance?'

The question sounded casual enough but he suspected that, in some way, it was calculated. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because I have something for Lili. I may not get the chance to deliver it myself for a day or two. Could you take it for me?' He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a small bottle. ‘Vitamin C pills.' He shook it, making them rattle. ‘For Rudi.'

The carved wolves' heads snarled at him from the Leichts' front door. He wondered if they were a presage of the reception he was going to receive. To his surprise it was the old grandfather who opened the door. He seemed almost normal, smiling and nodding and beckoning him inside. Rudi was lying on the couch in the corner, reading a book, but immediately struggled to his feet, coughing. Harrison was dismayed at how much worse he looked. ‘Squadron Leader, sir, I am very pleased indeed to see you.'

He felt guilty at the boy's obviously genuine pleasure. Somehow he'd got lost on the way and wandered fruitlessly around for nearly an hour in the Soviet sector. The people he had stopped to ask for directions had simply shrugged and walked on. Either they couldn't, or wouldn't, help. Maybe it was his uniform, or maybe his bad German. If it hadn't been for the pills, he might easily have given up. The grandfather was asking him something, but his German wasn't up to whatever it was. Rudi translated. ‘He wants you to sit down – in his chair. The best chair.'