The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  “I’ve been trumped again,” Fuchs muttered.

  “Count von Villiez, so nice to see you again,” Aubrey said. “This is my friend Richard Fuchs.”

  “How do you do?” the count said, as though just realizing someone else was at the bar. Aubrey felt a twinge of irritation. She had no time for men who put on airs. Relax, Aubrey, she told herself. It’s just a game men play.

  “Your Excellency, we have never been formally introduced, but…”

  “But you know me?”

  “I work for the Berliner Morgenpost.”

  “Oh.” The count chuckled, not quite nervously, but not in amusement either. He turned to Aubrey. “My dear, you’re drinking with the enemy. Well, at least he was the enemy until his newspaper developed the proper attitude.”

  “What’s he mean, Richard?” Aubrey stared at Fuchs in puzzlement.

  “We ran a series of articles about the count’s business dealings a few years back, when we still had such freedom.” He looked back at the count. “Your Grace, I hope you do not harbour resentment. I know only too well what resentment can bring these days.” He got to his feet. “Aubrey, auf wiedersehen.” He deposited some crumpled Reichsmark notes on the zinc bar and left.

  “What was that all about?” Aubrey said.

  “His paper has learned who’s in charge. Its reporters may chafe, but if they want to keep their jobs, and more importantly their necks…” The count trailed off.

  Aubrey fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “I’m not entirely on side with it, Aubrey. I want you to know that. I’ve always enjoyed a good piece of journalistic investigative work; just not when it was directed at me personally.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. So, dinner?”

  “I was going to retire early.”

  “Nonsense. I feel like shrugging off these blues. The tragedy at the airfield has had me in a funk all day. I require your assistance in banishing it. I offer you a grand tour of Berlin, warts and all.” He held out his arm.

  Aubrey slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “A girl can’t pass that up, now, can she?”

  16

  The crack of the whip startled Aubrey. She was feeling the benumbing effect of a succulent dinner of Norwegian crab legs paired with a crisp Riesling from the Rhineland, plus countless shots of schnapps. At first the count had been skeptical about her drinking prowess. Then a begrudging respect had grown. Now she seemed to be taking the lead in the matter. Helmut looked to be going down for the count, so to speak. Thankfully, this was their last stop for the evening. It had better be, she thought. Dawn was fast approaching.

  The lazy jazz music of the subterranean Rathskeller he had taken her to at midnight had only added to the sleepy effects of the dinner. She had watched Helmut’s chin start to fall to his chest.

  But when the woman, clad in a black leather vest and mid-thigh skirt complete with a twelve-foot-long bullwhip, walked onstage, things had picked up. She cracked the whip again, and a man was hurtled onto the stage from the wings. He was dressed in a sailor’s uniform and aped being as drunk as Aubrey and the count and the rest of the club-goers actually were. He crashed into the whipmaster, and she shoved him to the ground.

  “Oh my,” Aubrey said.

  Helmut came alive. “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing yet,” Aubrey said.

  When they’d pulled up to the building, Aubrey had been a little perturbed, even a little panicky. The streets were dark, and they had been surrounded by tall buildings whose business had shut down for the day. Then light had spilled from a cellar doorway in front of them and two people had stumbled out.

  “What is this?” Aubrey had asked.

  “A vestige of the old Weimar Republic,” the count had replied. “Come with me, back into time.”

  Aubrey had read about nightclubs like these. New York, even at the height of Prohibition, with its speakeasies and flappers, had never seemed as wild as what was going on in Germany. So, when they’d entered the sunken denizen, she’d felt suddenly giddy. Helmut hadn’t lied: they had gone back in time. It was just as she’d pictured it. Though try as she might, she could never have pictured the erogenous act that was presently occurring on stage. She turned away and blushed.

  Another crack of the whip.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. You are offended.”

  “No, it’s just not the sort of thing I’m used to seeing.”

  The woman with the whip had proceeded to undress the drunken sailor and handcuff him to a chair.

  “Surely this isn’t allowed?” she said uneasily. “What if it this place gets raided?”

  “My dear, in Germany there are arrestable people, all manner of them, and those who are un-arrestable. For the time being, at least, I am one of the latter.”

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the smoky scene long ago, but she had avoided looking around at the other patrons. She gave a quick glance at them now; there were no brownshirts in attendance. She imagined that rowdy group confined its hijinks to barracks and beer halls. There were no elite SS either; maybe they had their real-life torture scenes playing out in their dungeons. There were two men in fedoras sitting at the back of the room, watching the whole scene without showing any emotion.

  “Are those men back there Gestapo?” she said. “The ones with the hats.”

  The count saw who she was referring to and laughed.

  “No, Aubrey, they are the oldest queer couple in Berlin. This is the only refuge left to them, I suppose. Live and let live, at least in the dark alleyways and basements of the past.”

  The act concluded with a brief showing of all of the man’s attributes; Aubrey’s face grew red with embarrassment. Then a woman with a python wrapped around her neck came on stage to raucous applause. She sang with a deep falsetto, and after a while Aubrey clued into the real gender of the singer. Next, a black man at the piano sang in flawless French, a mournful tune about the good old days and a long-lost love. Then the black-clad woman came back with her whip; this time she stepped out into the audience, tantalizing and flirting and teasing both men and women.

  She grabbed the count by the tie, and Aubrey thought he was going to be pulled on stage. But then the dominatrix turned her attentions to her, running her hand delicately across Aubrey’s face and down her bosom. Aubrey sat there rock still, as scared as the rabbits that she knew must be fed to the python. Thankfully, the woman moved on to another table.

  “She’s something, isn’t she? You should have seen her in her heyday,” the count said when they were back in the Benz.

  Safely ensconced in the confines of the big Mercedes, with the thick velvet curtain pulled across the partition, the count finally pulled Aubrey into his arms. She did not resist.

  17

  Aubrey woke up in a sea of silk pillows and sheets and a thick duvet. She lay in the enormous bed in the count’s master bedroom, staring at the plaster scrollwork on the ceiling. A warm glow flooded through her when she thought of the previous night; the tender moments in the bed, the weight of him pressing down on her. The first time had been rushed, in the back seat of the Mercedes as they roared to the count’s home at a hundred miles an hour. The second time, she’d led him by the tie up the stairs, and then they were ensconced in this tumble of sheets, rising to ecstasy again and again.

  She ran her hand over to his side of the large mattress, found the sheets cold. She smiled at the comfort of the place and the memories of everything they’d done. Propped up on both elbows, she surveyed the room; it had been in darkness when they’d first entered earlier that morning.

  The room was white everywhere: the furniture, the walls and ceilings. The walls were white paper with thin gold lines that flashed in the morning light streaming in through the open windows. There was a balcony with an espresso table and a set of chairs, all white. There was gold jewellery, a tie pin and cuff links scattered on a white cloth on top of the large dresser. Her clothes were folded neatly on a chair
instead of heaped on the floor where she’d left them. How thoughtful. A thick robe lay on another chair, and a doorway led to an en-suite bathroom.

  The air felt cold against her skin when she sprang from the bed and dashed to the bathroom, grabbing the robe as she went. Hot needles of water tickled her flesh in the shower. She held herself, all soapy and warm again, and ran her hand down her belly to between her legs. She fantasized about the count coming into the shower behind her and embracing her, pressing his hardness against her. She wondered if he was still in the house. She dried herself off with a plush towel and wrapped herself in the robe.

  There was a knock at the door. The count? No, he wouldn’t knock, although he might knock and enter simultaneously. This was his room, and Aubrey had nothing left to hide from him. Another knock: the light knuckle-rap of a female.

  Aubrey bade the person to come in. She recognized the maid from the soiree the count had thrown. The young girl was carrying a tray of delicious-looking buttered buns and bacon and a pot of tea. She spoke to Aubrey in German. Aubrey’s brain was still buzzing; she didn’t bother to try and interpret it. The woman put the tray outside on the balcony after not receiving a reply.

  Aubrey’s watch showed nearly noon. This wasn’t breakfast; it was brunch. Here it was, the last day of the air exhibition, and she was playing hookey. As if on cue, a very fast airplane roared overhead, a white contrail extending behind it. Perhaps a Bf 109? She remembered Helmut’s promise of a ride in one. Then she remembered her mission. If Hewitt Purnsley was sitting beside her, he would say “You damn fool, you silly girl. Lounging around in a German’s bed.”

  But what would he say if he knew she was on the cusp of obtaining real, firsthand knowledge of the 109’s capabilities? What better way of finding out than to actually take one up in the air, feel the throb of the stick between her legs, the thunder of the engine, as she rolled that sucker over into a dive to find out what it could handle? Huh, Hewitt Purnsley? How about that? She was confident that when the count took her up, he would let her take the controls. Hang in there, she told herself. This is the way forward. Forget hustling over to the airfield to catch the last of the speeches and sales pitches. Stick with the count: he’ll get you up in the damn thing. That might make up for the failed meeting with Agent Starlight. A shiver of fear ran down her back when she thought of the blond-haired spy and his aborted attempt at passing her information. She wondered what the man had had for her. It’s not for you, Aubrey, she reminded herself. It’s for Hewitt and John Walton.

  Aubrey dressed and descended to the lobby. A butler appeared with a note on a silver platter.

  My dearest Aubrey,

  My work called me away early this morning and I did not want to wake you. Wilbur will ensure you get back to your hotel. I would like to have dinner with you again this evening, if possible. I can meet you at your hotel at 8. If this is not convenient, please inform Wilbur. But I do so desperately hope that it is.

  Until later, my love,

  Helmut

  When she returned to the Hotel Adlon, she had an inclination to get changed and head over to the air exhibition for the last few hours. If Captain Schmidt was there, he might be able to pass on whatever information he had this time.

  The more distance and time she put between herself and the count’s bedroom and the things that had happened in there, the more doubts she had. The smart thing to do, Aubrey, she told herself, would be to get your things and get on a train out of here. Perhaps even leave the gun behind for some lucky traveller to find, or a maid, lest she be caught with it at the border.

  She felt warm again when she thought of Helmut. It wasn’t time to leave Berlin, and in the midst of all this danger and intrigue she felt the cloak of his protection over her. She had funny fantasies of the two of them running away together, perhaps back to America. He would be the most dashing foreigner in all of Sacred, Michigan. They could turn her father’s farm into a horse breeding operation, or perhaps an airstrip for a flying school. These wild schoolgirl fantasies made her giggle.

  Upon entering her room, Aubrey studied its contents. The feeling that someone had been in here was more prominent now. She checked her markers; her overnight bag was out of alignment with the bedpost. And perhaps one of the American magazines as well. Someone may have been interested in what her reading interests were, whether they were ‘aligned’ with those of the Reich. The Führer would be out of luck, though. Harper’s Bazaar rarely ran articles on building a racially pure utopia.

  The maid had been in the room; the bed was made. Perhaps she’d jostled these things. Perhaps. A quick lift of the mattress showed the gun was still there, the tip of the barrel pointed towards the bedpost. It hadn’t been disturbed.

  Aubrey changed and headed down to the lobby. There was one message waiting for her at the front desk. It was from Richard Fuchs, just his name and a phone number. There were several phone booths near the elevators. Aubrey stepped into the farthest one and dialled the number on the paper. A female receptionist answered in lightning-fast German. Aubrey managed to ask to be put through to Richard.

  “It’s a good thing you caught me,” he said. “I was just on my way out of the office. Did you have fun last night?”

  “I did. The count took me to this underground-–”

  “Not over the phone,” Fuchs said, interrupting her. “You never know who might be listening, my dear.”

  “I see. Want to meet for coffee?”

  “Or maybe something else.” Aubrey detected a slur in his words. “There is a café not far from your hotel. Take the number five tram for four stops. It’s a big yellow building, French design. You cannot miss it.”

  “I’ll leave now.”

  “See you soon.”

  Aubrey saw Fuchs from a long way off. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he was stopping, scanning back the way he’d come. Paranoia? It almost looked like the fieldcraft she and Hewitt Purnsley had practised, but it was subtler than that. Maybe a journalist in Berlin, one who had apparently rankled the ruling class, had a right to be paranoid.

  Richard saw her and smiled from across the street. He let a truckload of shouting, hooting SA men and a tram pass before dashing across.

  “Been here long?” he asked her breathlessly.

  “Two cups and one danish.”’

  “Good, aren’t they?”

  “Better than back home.”

  “Where is home, my dear?”

  There was no challenge in the way he said “my dear.” He knew that Aubrey and the count had gone on a date; maybe he suspected much, much more. If he only knew the half of what they’d gotten up to. She could still hear the sharp crack of the whip and smell the leather on the woman from the Rathskeller.

  “I’m from Michigan. Little town called Sacred.”

  “I want to visit America one day. You’ll have to write down the best places to go.”

  “New York, Chicago, New Orleans, San Francisco.”

  “And of course, this town Sacred. I will be like a pilgrim on the way to Mecca.”

  “If you want to be bored out of your skull, by all means. How was the rest of the exhibition?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right—I did not see you there. I attended this morning. I have all I need for my article. German aviation at its finest, except for the sad little business of the crash. I’ll leave that part out.”

  “That was dreadful. Very unfortunate for such a prestigious event.”

  “It was. That SS captain, the one who almost stopped you from getting in,” he began.

  “Yes, I remember him,” Aubrey said, and looked away quickly.

  “He was furious with the cancelling of the exhibition. It was disgraceful; the loss of two men’s lives had ruined the event for the Führer.” A woman next to them turned her head at the scornful way Fuchs had used the leader’s title.

  “You should keep your voice down.”

  “We mustn’t embarrass the almighty Führer in anyway,” Richard said
, his voice rising. Yes, he was definitely slurring his words, she realized.

  “Seriously, how much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough, my dear. Not nearly enough.”

  “You said you couldn’t handle it; I see you weren’t joking. Let’s get you a coffee. We need to sober you up before you wind up in prison.” Aubrey flagged a waiter down.

  “Ah, yes—as a guest of our beloved Führer, in one of his nice little holiday camps.”

  Other customers’ heads were turning now.

  “If you don’t be quiet, I’m leaving. I don’t think they would stop at throwing me in jail just because I’m sitting with you.”

  “No, of course they wouldn’t. I’ll bet that one there, stuffing her face with crumpet, is going to go rat me out right now. Aren’t you?” he said to the lady nearest them.