by John Gardner
He was also to carry a hospital form which gave dates of admission and release, together with the scribbled details of a supposed stomach complaint for which he had been treated. The dates matched the time he had been absent from the Russian Zone and mentioned the sudden onset of the ailment.
Arnie lurked near Gatow and watched Naldo’s and Herbie’s backs while they got to the safe house. He then distanced himself, covering them until the first stage was complete.
‘There’s still time to say no, Herb,’ Naldo told the big German lad as they sat over a simple meal on the night before he was due to go.
Herbie just laughed. ‘When I say yes, I say yes. I also have found ways. I know Mahler’s First and Second symphonies by heart. I can listen to them in my mind, like you can remember poetry and Shakespeare. They are my cover. I can retreat into them and hide.’
Naldo knew what he meant but realised that Herbie had a lot to learn. Those kind of tricks were ones you didn’t share with your controller – or case officer, as the Americans would have said. He continued to talk as though Herbie had told him nothing he did not know already. ‘Any problem – however small – get out fast. You come here or, if it’s easier, to the address in the American Zone.’
‘You told me.’
‘Then I’m telling you again. The telephones will be rung in both houses every three hours. Two rings, then stop. Thirty seconds later it rings again. This will be every three hours, on the hour from midnight tonight. If there’s trouble you answer, “Fire.” If you’ve come out with everything set up you say “Treacle.” On that word you wait and I’ll be there in twenty-four hours. Okay?’
‘You told me it all.’ Herbie grinned happily. ‘Nald, my good friend, don’t worry. It will be well. But how you fix things so the telephones definitely work?’
‘C’s got it sewn up. You give a “Fire” or a “Treacle” and we’ll know.’
On the third day, Herbie left soon after five in the afternoon. He wore old working clothes and carried a battered document case containing food, cigarettes, and a bottle of cheap Schnapps. Hidden in a secret compartment were a camera, film, and a simple recording machine with accessories.
Arnie watched him all the way until he had mingled with the string of daily migrant workers who lived in the Russian Zone and worked in either the British or American sectors.
Only when Herbie was out of sight, clear and into the East, did Arnie leave to meet Naldo at one of the many makeshift clubs that had started up near the old Ku-damm.
The next day they both flew back – separately – to London and met C in the Northolt house.
‘He’s running,’ Naldo said, his voice uneven, for he liked nothing about the operation they called Brimstone.
‘Good.’ C was brisk and workmanlike. ‘You know the form then. One of you here day and night with telephone access to the other within an hour. Shouldn’t stop you having a pleasant time. If one of you goes out on the town he should call in every hour. If we get a “Fire” or a “Treacle” I want instant action.’ He looked at the two men. From their faces he could see they needed rest. ‘You’d better both stay here tonight. Then you can sleep. The telephone’ll always waken you. We’ve had instruments fitted in the bedrooms.’
‘The telephone handling in Berlin is secure?’ Naldo asked.
‘Don’t be stupid, or course it is. The Duty Officer here will get me as soon as Berlin comes on. Communications are the least of our worries.’
‘What’s the worst?’ Arnold was half joking.
‘Well…’ As C started to speak they both sat up and looked at him. There was a subtle change in his manner; something nasty in the woodshed of his larynx.
‘Yes?’ asked Naldo.
‘What?’ – from Arnie. They spoke in unison.
‘I almost stopped the clock.’ C looked serious now. ‘But we’d gone a long way with Brimstone. I felt it was worth the risk. It concerns those jokers who had you under surveillance.’
‘We lost them, didn’t we?’ Naldo felt a spike of anxiety deep in his gut.
‘Yes. Yes, you lost them. I told you it was perfectly all right when you got down to Warminster. But they were very good – good professionals. The Branch were on their backs. There was quite a to-do when they lost you.’
‘Who the hell were they? Ivans – ?’ Naldo began.
‘We don’t know who they were; only that they were professional.’ C’s speech became very deliberate. ‘You see, the Branch lost them – both teams. We have excellent descriptions, but we can’t tie them into any particular organisation. They could even be old pros going private for someone else. Could even be your people, Arnie.’
Farthing shook his head. ‘I’d know, I promise you that. If the Agency was working both sides of the street I’d know.’
‘Well, could be the Ivans, I suppose; or even “Five.” They’ve been known to throw sand in the works before now. If anyone’s got wind of my running a private operation – ’ He stopped. ‘You have kept it contained, the pair of you?’
Both of them acknowledged that Symphony and Brimstone had stayed within their small circle.
‘It couldn’t be my good Uncle Caspar getting trunky about what’s going on?’ Naldo’s question held no conviction.
‘Doubt it.’ C was certainly concerned. ‘We might have to put one of you up again. Tethered goat to flush them. We’ll see.’
‘Great,’ muttered Arnie.
C’s news did not make for peace of mind.
That night they tossed a coin to decide who took the first watch. Arnold lost. He would stay on through the next night and Naldo would take over from him at nine o’clock on the morning after. ‘I’ll be away before nine tomorrow,’ he told Arnold. ‘Lot of time to make up with Barb.’
‘And the best of luck to you.’ Arnie still felt the need for female companionship.
They went to bed early and the telephone did not ring that night.
Arnold Farthing woke from a deep sleep to a tapping on his bedroom door. His watch showed it was after ten. ‘Come on in,’ he shouted loudly, assuming it to be Naldo. Instead, a vision appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. It was C’s lovely housekeeper – one of his wise monkeys, Naldo had said. The redhead called Ophelia.
‘Golly,’ was all he could manage.
‘And “golly” to you.’ She smiled and a dimple showed on her right cheek. ‘Your colleague said you could probably do with breakfast.’ She came over and placed the tray on the bed – coffee, toast, bacon, and two eggs. Arnie noticed that her oval face was heavily freckled. She probably hated freckles, but to Arnie they were like iron filings to a magnet.
‘Well, thank you.’ He was still only half awake. ‘Ophelia, you needn’t get thee to that nunnery, after all.’
‘Oh, not you, please!’ she said. ‘My brothers, the girls at school, and even some of my old friends. My parents were crazy. Please don’t call me Ophelia. I get really tired of the nunnery jokes, the “been swimming?” jokes, and the “Please don’t get mad, Ophelia,” jokes.’ Her voice was firm and friendly – good-humoured was how people would describe it. She certainly had none of that ghastly upper-crust drawl which so infected Faith Kirk’s voice.
Arnie propped himself up in bed and pulled the tray toward him, glancing up at her again as though to make certain she was real. ‘I was only told that name. What else can I call you?’ She wore a slim grey skirt, light blue blouse, grey shoes. There were no rings on her fingers, but a small, expensive-looking watch on her right wrist, and a tiny brooch in the shape of an O clasped to the neck of her blouse. He took it all in before blinking. For the first time since early puberty Arnie reflected on what she might be wearing underneath. Under the sheets his body responded to the adolescent thoughts.
She smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you were American. Or is it Canadian?’
‘American, ma’am. I’m – ’
‘No, please. I don’t want to know names.’
‘Well, I do. You don’t
like Ophelia so I call you Miss – what?’
‘Miss nothing. My friends, those I like, call me by my second name, Liz.’
‘As in Elizabeth?’ Lordy but she had a smile that lit up the room – and those big round brown eyes looked like they could eat a man up.
‘As in Liz.’
‘Great, Liz. Call me John – it’s really St John, my second name.’
‘That’s settled. Enjoy your breakfast, I’ve got things to do.’ She made for the door.
‘Er… Miss… er… hey… whoa… er… Liz.’
‘Is something not right with the breakfast?’ She had the door half open.
‘Looks great. I just wondered… Well, look… I’m not your lewd and licentious soldiery, just a genuinely lonely Yank in London. Could we have dinner? Say tomorrow night?’
She smiled and shook her head slowly. She moves like a dancer, Arnie thought. Or maybe I just think she moves like a dancer because this is the first woman I’ve been close to in a long time. He did not count Faith Kirk.
‘Against the rules?’ He tried to smile, knowing it was simply some zany kind of grin.
‘No, I’m not aware of any rules like that. It’s, well, we have only just met.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, you aren’t one of those, are you?’
‘One of what?’
‘I can’t date you because our folks didn’t introduce us.’ He mimicked her accent.
‘Certainly not.’ Her smile really was terrific. When she moved her lips everything lit up – face, eyes, the full business.
‘Well then, why no dinner tomorrow?’
‘Why not?’ She gave a laugh and disappeared. By the time Arnie had finished breakfast, bathed, and dressed, she had left the house. ‘Shit!’ he said loudly to the walls.
He read for most of the day, listened to the radio – what the Brits insisted on calling the wireless – and generally moped. The telephone rang just after six.
‘I’ve been home all day,’ said Naldo at the distant end, ‘but Barbara and I are going out to dinner. From around eight to ten we’ll be at the Hungaria.’ He gave the number. ‘Home and in for the rest of the evening, okay?’
‘Okay, but I expect you here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, first thing in the morning.’
‘Nine o’clock sharp.’ Naldo paused. ‘No news I suppose?’
‘Not a jot. I think we’re in for a long haul. Better get used to it, Nald.’
He jumped when the telephone rang again shortly after eight.
‘Hallo? John?’ said the caller. He recognised her voice instantly.
‘Well, Liz. You coming over to fix my dinner?’
‘No, but I will have dinner tomorrow if the invitation’s still valid.’
‘It’s valid. Where and when, Liz? Oh, and why the change of heart?’ Arnie tried not to sound excited, but knew that he had failed, the words tumbling over one another.
‘I was supposed to see an old girlfriend. She’s cried off, so I thought, why not?’
‘Indeed, why not. You like Chinese?’
‘Adore it.’
‘Choy’s in Dean Street, then. Seven-thirty suit you?’
‘Fine. Mind you, I don’t usually take meals from strangers.’
‘I’m not a stranger, though, am I? I’m one of your gentlemen lodgers.’
‘Half past seven tomorrow, then. ’Bye.’ She hung up, and Arnie stretched back in his chair, eyes closed and a goofy smile on his battered face.
He was there at twenty after seven, having reserved a table using Naldo’s telephone. She arrived at 7:48, full of apologies about not being able to get a cab, and all the usual feminine tales.
It was a very different kind of evening. They did not delve deeply into each others’ lives or families. There were rules, and they both knew it. But she was fun, laughed a lot, a good talker, and nobody’s fool. She ate, as well – a good sign. Arnold had long been used to women who merely picked at their food or pushed it around the plate. Wonton soup, ginger chicken, sweet and sour pork, noodles, egg rolls, special fried rice. ‘My family always say I’ve got hollow legs,’ she said. ‘I eat far too much. Wonder how these Chinese manage to get the pork, what with rationing and everything?’
‘There are ways.’ Arnold liked the bit about ‘hollow legs’.
‘I’m an American.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘That means I hold the key to a dozen PXs in England. You want little extras – liquor, food, cigarettes, nylon stockings – I can get them for you.’ He remembered Herbie.
‘I’ve heard all that before. I know the price for these things.’ She said it a shade too seriously, he thought.
‘No strings.’ He lifted his hands, holding them apart in a gesture of capitulation.
Arnold took her home by cab – a block of flats off the Earl’s Court Road – but she shook his hand at the door, said thank you, and slid inside, leaving him looking at a solid piece of wood with an inlaid letterbox, number, and doorbell.
Arnold was hooked. She had red hair – with such a sheen that you could almost see your face in it – done up in a big French pleat at the back; a great figure which moved inside her clothes; a slightly crooked sense of humour, and something wild lurking behind the large brown eyes. He started to lay siege. Much good did it do him.
Even though most of Arnie’s waking thoughts revolved around Miss Ophelia Liz No-Name, he remained conscious of the main task. Both he and Naldo confessed to moments during every day when their stomachs turned over at the thought of Brimstone.
‘I wonder how he’s coping?’ Naldo said one morning during what they had come to think of as the changing of the guard. After a week they had heard nothing – not even from C.
‘Yeah.’ Arnie let out a long sigh. ‘He’s so damned young. Poor old Herbie. I wonder…’
They need not have worried. Herbie was managing very well indeed.
*
Though Herbie Kruger was only sixteen years old, going on seventeen, he had spent the bulk of his life in Berlin. His first memories of this city came from his childhood. Berlin had become a great pile of rubble, but to Herbie, the city was not simply a place of façades behind which no substantial buildings stood, or mounds of bricks along what had once been streets. Herbie could follow the lines between the ruins, like someone placing a cellophane map over a drawing of scrawls, blotches, and whorls. The ruins became familiar byways to him, and by some strange childhood memory he could name streets and alleys, corners and squares, by their old names. His geographical bump led him to destinations some might have experienced great difficulty in finding among the odd jumbled cartography created by the British and American air forces, and the Russian tanks.
‘Don’t beat about the bush with Helene,’ they had told him. ‘Get straight to the point. If she’s the girl you think she is, then she’ll lead you to others.’ He did just that, not going toward Karlshorst, but heading straight for where the Alexanderplatz once stood. Here there were many skeletons which had once been well-remembered buildings, but some houses had stood firm. It was the same all over the city, for bomb and shell blast can do strange things. A whole section of houses, or even a single building, stood almost unscathed in the midst of ruin and desolation.
In the early evening of that first day back in the Russian Zone, Herbie waited quietly in a doorway, only a few steps from the house where Helene lived. He stood very still and calm, his eyes moving slowly but taking in everything. In his head he heard the ‘Huntsman’s Funeral,’ based on the old French song Frère Jacques, from the Mahler First. Not one person escaped his notice, and he spotted Helene long before she detected him in the doorway.
‘Eberhardt? What happened? I’ve been so worried.’ She hugged him, clinging tightly.
‘A little illness,’ he whispered. ‘They kept me in hospital in the British Zone.’
‘Illness? How serious? Are you well now?’ Concern blasted a stream of questions from her small pretty mouth. ‘I have soup and bread. Come home with me, y
ou must eat.’
Next to Herbie, Helene was small – around five feet six inches in her stocking feet – when she managed to get stockings. Her hair was short and almost blond – not quite the real thing, for it was a very dark blond. ‘Mama used to call me a blonde,’ she would say, ‘but I think she was being optimistic. I’m really only a kind of light mouse.’
Herbie roared with laughter when she had first said this to him. ‘You are a very pretty mouse,’ he said as he engulfed her slight body in his huge arms.
Though slim – almost thin – Helene was neatly proportioned: good legs, breasts which were full though not too big, and a long face with an unusually small nose and striking grey eyes. She also had almost perfect buttocks, as Herbie knew. He could span the twin mounds of her rump with both hands.
Her room, to which she now took him, was not large but, as she often said, it contained everything she needed – bed, stove, washbasin, wardrobe, table, three chairs, and ‘The door locks from the inside. That is most important in these times.’
‘You see, nothing has changed.’ She threw open the door on that evening of Herbie’s return, to reveal her room – spotless, clean, and tidy as ever. Helene Schtabelle prided herself on the cleanliness. ‘When you live in one small room, there must be a special place for everything, and everything must remain in its place,’ she often said, and Herbie, being astute, guessed that she had heard her mother reciting those same words to her during childhood.
‘No, nothing has changed.’ He smiled his daft smile and moved slowly into the room. She closed and locked the door, turning to him. ‘You’re sure you are well now?’
‘You want me to show you?’
They faced each other, slightly apart for a moment, then as humans often do, they crossed the divide, snuggling into each other with Helene pressing and wriggling herself against Herbie as though she wanted to be magically swallowed by his large frame.
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered; and again, ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’
The floor was strewn with clothes and the bed moved under the weight of their combined bodies. ‘I have missed you so much,’ she said afterward, and Herbie wondered at it, for they had made love only three times before.