‘Although it’ll toughen you up,’ he said, inspecting the damage. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the broken skin,‘this isn’t unbearable, it’s just bad. And there’s plenty of bad in this life, so best you get used to it.’ He paused before adding, ‘And you stink.’ He put an arm around his brother who was trying not to cry and suggested they go for a swim together.‘I stink even worse than you.’
When everyone smells there’s no point to washing, but Heini knew when the worst smell is your own, when you reek like your guts are spilling through your skin, it’s time to act. With so many horses in the streets there were plenty of troughs – often a safer bet than the pond in the park. Not that anything had ever happened to him, but he’d heard about other children who had been hounded by a monster-man down there, or so went the story. Summer was best. Summer meant swimming, and how he loved moving through the cool, cool water, the ease and stretch of his body, or just floating on his back beneath the sun, his eyes shut and not a care in the world. A person could do a lot worse than be a fish, he had often thought.
Heini was the dependable member of the family, and better him than Walter who was a bit simple, or his mother who was becoming more and more useless. Heini took his responsibilities very seriously, and by the age of eight he had become a truly gifted thief, much better than any of the other boys he knew. Affe Werner, who had been a thief longer than living memory, would gaze on Heini with pride. ‘That boy,’ he would say, ‘has been touched by God.’
Heini felt it himself. He was a natural. How else to explain the ease with which he would nip through an opening, sniff out the money and valuables, have them safe in his pouch plus a little something for himself, and be back in the street before Werner had finished his cigarette. He was adept at purses too, and worked Alexanderplatz and the Friedrichstrasse theatres with the stealth of an old pro. He wasn’t bad at begging either, although it seemed such a waste of his gifts and besides it spoiled his pride. Although what he had squeezed out of smart ladies in their furs was no one’s business.
‘Quite a boy you have,’ people would say to Greta, who may or may not respond depending on the time of day.
It was a life and Heini wasn’t about to complain. The worst was his teeth, but fortunately they were falling out and stronger ones growing in their place. He always had somewhere to sleep, although never flash and often changing because his mother would drink the rent or one of her men would disappear with the purse. But still a place, either at the very bottom of the building or the very top, just the one room for five people, Heini, his sister and brother in one bed, and Greta with her latest in the other. And in between, the stove and the table and the stinking lamp and a string for the clothes and a bucket for the water and another for the slops. And bloating the air the familiar stench of fuel mixed with piss and foul breath and mould.
Heini far preferred the attics to the cellars. It was not just the filth from the street which oozed endlessly into the basements, nor the thick, prison-like bars that smothered the basement windows; he liked the way the windows bulged beneath the sloping roof of the garrets, and beyond the glass, the queer comfort of the endless sky. It was a bit like swimming, he would think, as he lay on the bed gazing out. He was fascinated by the clouds, how some stretched like smoke through the blue, and others were feathery like birds’ wings, and others were puffed up and fat enough to carry a boy – although goodness knows where he’d go if ever he had the chance.
As lives went, Heini could pinpoint a lot worse. He knew of kids who spent their days coughing up their lungs, and others with umpteen brothers and sisters to squeeze into a life the same size as his own, and the dumb girl with the small head who dribbled and laughed and would be dead if she didn’t have a mother to look after her. And while the current room might be smaller or colder or more lice-infested than others, Heini knew what was possible for people like him and what he needed to do each day to exploit the meagre possibilities. Even the places he robbed, with heaters that worked and two, sometimes three rooms for just one family, didn’t rankle. They were robbing material pure and simple, and not for living in by the likes of him.
It is possible his mother may have once shared his views, but by 1918 nothing much mattered to her except the next drink. Greta and her mates had hardly budged when the machine guns first sounded, and most were still in their places when the war was over. But opportunities were not thick on the ground in the postwar period, and Heini, with a sister and brother to support, found himself stretched to the limit.
One morning while placating his aching teeth with the tip of his finger he noticed a group of children heading off to school. He followed at a distance, saw them enter through a gate and disappear into the building beyond. He had never thought of going to school before. But why not? There was money to be made in reading and writing, particularly down in the Scheunenviertel where plenty of people couldn’t even sign their name. And if he was as smart as people said, he should manage book-learning as well as anyone. He looked more closely at the children, they were just like him, same rags, same ill-fitting shoes, same dirt on their faces. If it was all right for them, why not for him?
It took a month to organise. He chose a school near the market in order to be in close proximity to the shoppers, a little more evening work around the theatres, and most of the house-stealing he’d leave to his brother. The way he’d worked it out, he said to his mother, they shouldn’t be any worse off. She thought it a god-awful idea. Everyone she knew had managed perfectly well without going to school. But Heini knew her friends, and if ever there was a reason for school it was them.
Although he nearly changed his mind on the first day. Everyone knew what to do and where to go and he didn’t. He had always managed by being a step ahead of the rest and was jittery with all the strangeness. He decided to give it a month.
Well before the trial period was up, Heini had learned the ropes. He had learned the pecking order too. To be popular with the kids you had to be a leader in the playground without being a bully, and to win over the teacher you had to be clever. In fact, the teacher made his preference for the smart kids so obvious Heini wondered why the dumb ones bothered to turn up. Years of managing the family finances put him near the top of the class in arithmetic, and once he learned his letters there was no stopping him with reading and writing. The writing surprised the teacher, so neat and well shaped despite his large hand, and while Heini could easily have demonstrated where the credit lay with the teacher’s wallet more often than not poking out of his pocket, he never did.
Heini settled into the new routine quickly. His mother hardly mentioned his going to school; in fact, he’d find himself wondering if she even remembered, and then she’d burst out with a snide remark about children who were too big for their boots and rising above themselves. Heini didn’t care. He loved school and was determined to make the most of it. Within two years, and still only ten years of age, he was earning regular money reading and writing for those in the neighbourhood who couldn’t. He passed on his learning to his brother and sister. Walter couldn’t get the hang of it and as soon as he acquired the basics begged to be let off. But Hilde was just like him and took to the lessons like a drunk to drink.
Six years later when he left school, Heini judged it as time well spent; there were, after all, other ways of stealing than bag-snatching and housebreaking. But tough times meant his plans fell in a heap along with those of most other Germans. The war might have ended in 1918, but losing it went on for much longer. There were strikes and starvation, and what few pockets were full were hidden behind fortresses. And while Heini knew most people were suffering, when you’re already on the bottom, the crush is that much worse. Day after day, month after month, year after year the same dismal story: not enough food, not enough money, and no prospects. Each day, he would go to the market with Walter; but even for expert scavengers, when the food is in short supply and the scavengers are not, you’re lucky to come away with anything much at all.
With a month’s rent owing and the landlord bellowing, the Hecks were forced to move again. If it hadn’t been winter, Heini would have chosen the park rather than their new home. It was a corner of a basement, no window, and the worst room by far in a long sequence of bad rooms. The bricks were mouldy and damp, the stove gobbled coal and swallowed heat, the air wasn’t fit for breathing;even the rats, Heini noticed, stayed away. And if the room was not bad enough, Walter’s lungs were playing up, the drink was turning Greta’s feet numb, and his sister, after falling prey to one of Greta’s boyfriends, was not good for anything. They had always managed before, but now it was difficult to see anyone who was worse off.
With thieving proving unprofitable and his years of school not yielding the cash Heini had hoped, his life was an unremitting burden. For the first time ever he was desperate to escape. He had heard there was work to be found on farms, so he decided to try the countryside – although having never before ventured more than a couple of kilometres from Alexanderplatz, he could not have described a farm, much less the type of work he expected to find. But life was so miserable he simply didn’t care.
He planned to slip out early one Friday before anyone was awake, but the morning was clogged with problems. There was his brother’s cough to attend to, and his mother’s feet were so bad she needed help to the bar. So instead of being out on the open road, he was lugging her down the street, her numb feet buckling beneath her, a barrel-shaped woman above her spindly legs, and no lightweight that’s for sure. At last he gets her settled and returns home for his pack and there’s his sister swearing she’s seen the man who hurt her. She’s clinging to him and crying and Heini knows if anyone can hold him here it’s Hilde. Yet he has a premonition that if he doesn’t leave now he’ll never get away. Though his stomach churns for her, he tenses against the turmoil and calms her down, and as her grip loosens, he moves to leave. Immediately her body is pinning him back, and again he feeds her soothing words. But this time when her hold begins to weaken he makes sure he is prepared. He promises her a special treat.
He knows his sister, she’s young and easily tempted. What treat? she asks. He tells her it’s a surprise, that if she lets him go she’ll soon find out. A minute later he is alone in the street and if he has any sense he’ll make a run for it. But it’s his sister and he has made a promise. It takes him almost an hour but eventually he tracks down a large, fragrant orange and returns to the room. Hilde is delighted. He sits on the bed with her and Walter and removes the peel slowly and delicately so as not to pierce the transparent skin, all the while telling about lands where oranges are so plentiful people can pick them from trees whenever the fancy takes them. With the peeling finished, he separates the segments. One for you, he says, handing a piece to his sister, one for you, he says to his brother, and one for me, and soon everyone is sucking a segment of orange. Then the process is repeated, and after that one more time.
‘What happens if there are the wrong number of pieces?’ Hilde asks.
‘But that’s the magic of oranges,’ says Heini. ‘There’s always exactly the right number.’
With the orange finished and his sister calm and happy, Heini finally leaves. There are no goodbyes, he doesn’t want to make it harder for himself, instead he trains his thoughts to the future. He’ll find work and make enough money to send for Hilde and Walter, and the three of them will live together in a nice room in the country with a stove which works and sufficient food never to be hungry. The thoughts give him courage as he travels westwards, moving quickly through the familiar streets and into the broad strip of Unter den Linden. He crosses over Friedrichstrasse, he’s practically running he’s moving so fast, but any slower and he might change his mind. His pace slackens only after he passes through the Brandenburg Gate and, for the first time in his life, he enters the Tiergarten.
It’s another world in here. The air is as fresh as rainwater and the light looks like it has been washed in gold. Even the sound is different, with muffled rustlings of birds and trees and the burr of distant traffic. The clunk and grate of his boots is thunderous, and he tries to tread more lightly. He’s surprised at so many smart people with nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon than stroll beneath the trees and talk. He feels the scratch of their gaze and a prickling of heat down his back. He smoothes his hair and settles his jacket, but still they stare at him. A minute or two later he can’t bear it any longer and takes the next path out of the park to the road.
It is late morning and not knowing how far he has to travel he sets himself a pace. With winter just around the corner the day is surprisingly warm. He stops at a fountain to drink, then he is off again and striding it out. In these bustling streets no one takes any notice of him and Heini far prefers it that way. He keeps his gaze to the ground, skirts the lumps and pits in the pavement, the garbage too, and expert scavenger that he is, easily sees the tiny coin even though it’s coated with grime. It is not German money and useless to anyone with an empty stomach. He wipes it on his sleeve and studies the engraving. It’s English, he thinks, and judging by the size not worth much, but still he folds it in a shred of paper and puts it in his pocket. It’s an omen, he decides, to bring him luck in his new life.
He walks onwards until he reaches the district of Charlottenburg. It is such a short way from home but it might be another country; it makes him think he wouldn’t feel right in heaven if there turned out to be such a place. He stops in a quiet clean street lined with pale, palatial buildings. His boots are gross on grass that looks like it has just been to the barbers, and through the silence he hears a frantic panting – his own, he suddenly realises. He feels the danger creep down his spine; it’s like being caught with your hand in a lady’s purse. He raises his head, and his nostrils flare to the possibility of another life, but if there is a scent he fails to pick it up.