The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  He laughed. He was slurring his words. John felt his own slip too.

  ‘But I heard today, sir.’ He swung his chair forward, landed with a jolt, poured another glass of champagne. ‘I’ve matriculated. Six subjects.’ He drew his cigarette to his mouth again, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, added, ‘Distinction in the whole bloody lot of them.’

  ‘You did what, sergeant?’

  ‘Ma-tric-u-la-ted,’ Arthur said, pronouncing each syllable with fervour.

  ‘That’s what I thought you said.’ John stretched out his hand and Arthur grabbed it in a clinch, shaking it hard. ‘That’s fantastic. Well done. How did you do it? When?’

  ‘Correspondence courses, sir. University of London. Couldn’t believe my luck. Never thought I’d have a second chance. Kept it quiet, just in case, you know?’

  ‘You’ve every right to brag now,’ John said. ‘You must be very proud.’ He lifted his drink. ‘Here’s to you, sergeant.’

  ‘And all who sail in her.’ He clinked his glass against John’s. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’ve we got here?’

  John turned. A young woman was approaching their table. Her hair was tucked inside a scarf tied in a turban, her face was soft, with clear, even features, her body lithe and petite, like a ballet dancer. She was, John thought, the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

  Arthur was beckoning John to lean forward, elbows on the table.

  ‘Bit of fatherly advice, sir. Don’t even think about her. Or any of them. They’re riddled with it.’

  ‘Riddled?’

  ‘Syphilis. VD. You name it, they’ve got it.’

  The young woman approached their table, stopped, smiled, nodded. ‘Guten Abend.’

  Arthur flicked his hand without looking at her. ‘Nein. Not interested.’

  She looked puzzled, turned to John, lifting a string bag and placing it on the table. She pulled out a package wrapped in newspaper and laid it down carefully, opening it up. A clock. Modern, simple, elegant, an unfussy face with Roman letters and a chrome base.

  ‘Das ist sehr schön,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. Don’t you think, sergeant?’

  Arthur had leaned back in his chair again, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Sie sprechen gut Deutsch,’ she said.

  ‘Danke. Thank you,’ John said, continuing, ‘But it’s very formal, very old-fashioned. My everyday German is non-existent.’

  She shrugged. ‘You need to practise, that’s all.’ She pointed at the clock. ‘Would you like to buy it?’

  The slender clock hands stemmed from a simple disc in the centre of the face. John turned the clock round to reveal the mechanism at the back.

  ‘Eine Acht-Tage-Uhr,’ she said.

  John whistled. ‘Eight days, eh? Does it work?’

  She pointed to the hands, and John checked his watch.

  ‘It keeps perfect time,’ she added.

  ‘Is it Bauhaus?’

  Arthur was scowling, shaking his head. John ignored him. Anyone could see they were talking about a clock.

  ‘You know about the Bauhaus?’ She seemed surprised.

  ‘Not much,’ he said, thinking fast in his stilted, formal German. ‘Form follows function and all that. Seems like that clock embodies it all.’

  ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘It is for sale, if you’d like it.’

  ‘Really?’ It was, John thought, perfect in its simplicity and honesty, with its smoked glass front and silvered surround, its neat, discreet mechanism. ‘How much?’

  ‘One hundred marks.’ Everything in this city was bought and sold for a hundred marks. It was, John thought, nothing.

  ‘I could give you five cigarettes,’ he said.

  ‘Haggle,’ Arthur whispered. ‘It’s a bloody awful clock. Not worth it.’

  John pulled out his cigarettes and, counting out five, gave them to the young woman.

  ‘Danke,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She handed him the newspaper she’d wrapped it in, took the string bag and stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt. She turned to go but he found her presence alluring, magnetic even.

  ‘Sit for a minute,’ John said. ‘Have a glass of champagne.’

  ‘Nein, danke, kein Champagner,’ she said, shaking her head as she pulled out a stool from beneath the table and perched herself on the edge, holding her knees together, tugging her skirt down and tucking it under her thighs.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Lieselotte,’ she said.

  ‘Lieselotte who?’

  ‘Just Lieselotte. And yours?’

  ‘John.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Lieutenant John Harris, and this is Sergeant Arthur Gambol.’ She turned and nodded at Arthur, who shook his head, mouthed, No fraternisation. She was thin, her arms lean, her neck frail. He could see the jut of her collarbone beneath her blouse, the frame of her hand beneath its skin. Her fingernails were broken, the cuticles torn and black. He wanted to ask if she picked stones with the other women. She seemed too fragile for such work.

  ‘Can I offer you a sandwich?’ John said. ‘A ham roll?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Nein, danke,’ she said. ‘I must get back.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Berlin.’

  He wasn’t sure she wanted to talk, and yet she had taken a seat. She didn’t have the air of a streetwalker, though John wasn’t sure he’d recognise one anyway. She was, he guessed, about his age, a little younger perhaps. There was a serenity about her that he couldn’t fathom. Was it a calmness? Or numbness? Was she sad, or solemn? She needed food, a good square meal. He had an overwhelming urge to find out about her, how she came to be here, selling her clock, sitting on the stool beside him with her skirt wrapped around her thighs. He wanted to know all about her, to know her.

  ‘Why don’t you teach me German?’ he said, words crashing out before he’d had time to think them through.

  ‘You speak German.’

  ‘Conversational German. I’ll pay you. A hundred marks an hour.’ She breathed in sharp, her dirty hand across her mouth, eyes wide. She neither smiled nor scowled. Arthur drummed his nails on the tabletop, coughed.

  ‘I have no classroom,’ she said.

  ‘Who needs a classroom? The summer is here. We can walk and talk.’

  ‘Just walk and talk?’

  ‘Yes.’ He put his hand across his heart. ‘Yes. Promise.’

  She frowned, thinking. He wondered if she always did that, frowned when she thought. She didn’t answer. Please, he thought. Please. He didn’t want to push her. Say yes. She seemed brittle, as if a decision would crack her in two. He had to see her again, even if it meant buying every clock she sold.

  ‘Where shall we meet?’ she said at last.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. Sunday. We could talk all day.’

  She smiled. ‘Not here. Not on the Kurfürstendamm. In front of the Brandenburger Tor. I will be there at six o’clock in the evening.’ She pushed herself up. ‘For one hour. Auf Wiedersehen, mein Leutnant. Until tomorrow.’

  She walked out of the cellar, her skirt loose on her hips, the slender bones of her ankles swallowed in the heels of her shoes.

  ‘Don’t say I haven’t warned you, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘She’s trouble.’

  ‘No, sergeant.’ John shook his head, rubbed his hand round the circular rim of the clock. Arthur snorted, tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Watch yourself.’

  §

  Russian soldiers patrolled the Brandenburg Gate, squinting into the late sun, with dusty boots, forage caps, rifles under their arms. These soldiers were dark, squat, looked Asian, from Turkmenistan or somewhere like that, but then, John reasoned, the USSR was a big place. It was just before six, and the evening was hot even in the late afternoon sun.

  Arthur had grumbled at first. ‘I’m not going to be your bloody chaperone,’ he said, ‘while the pair of you jabber in German. Nor a bloody wallflower if you take her behind the bushes.’

  ‘It’ll o
nly be an hour,’ John said. ‘Promise. I’ll buy you a beer. You know the regs as well as me. A soldier alone is fair game.’

  John didn’t want to walk too close to the Russians, though he had his papers secure just in case. Arthur stood near enough to make it clear John wasn’t alone, far enough to give him space. He wasn’t sure which direction she’d be coming from or where she’d be waiting for him, so he positioned himself some yards from the tower. It was badly damaged, he could see, bullet holes and cracks. The statue of Nike was toppled, her horses hobbled, broken stumps on the pediment. More like the apocalypse, John thought, conquest, death, pestilence, famine. A suitable metaphor.

  He could see through the arches to Pariser Platz and, beyond, Unter den Linden. He craned his neck but there was no sign of her. Most of the rubble had been cleared and a small band of women were sweeping the loose debris. To the right were the ruins of the Adlon Hotel. Buddleia were already poking through, profiteering from the dust like flies from a corpse. For as long as he lived, John thought, he’d never see buddleia as anything other than the opportunists of nature. A creature jumped and disappeared beneath the broken bricks and mortar. A rabbit? More likely a rat. Of course, she probably wouldn’t come, was stringing him along. Arthur would be happy. He’d give her ten minutes.

  A young woman emerged, balancing on the mounds of scree. She was carrying a jug. He watched as she stepped onto the even ground of the square, heading towards the gate. It was a while before he recognised her. The scarf had been removed and her hair hung loose in chestnut swags. She wore the same skirt and blouse as yesterday, was pulling out the string bag from her pocket, pushing the jug inside it.

  She walked through the side arches and saw him. He waved and walked towards her as she began to run.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ he said. ‘No need to rush.’ He reached out for her bag but she clutched it tight, her face colouring in a blush. John felt awkward, unsure what to say. Such an odd thing, to have a conversation. She didn’t look pleased to meet him.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ he began. ‘Where shall we walk?’

  She pointed towards the Tiergarten.

  ‘What should we talk about?’ John said. The obvious topic was the war, but that was the last thing that could be mentioned. The central boulevard was closed, so they skirted to the left. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur follow.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Anything.’

  They walked on in silence. This, he thought, was not a good idea. He heard her take in breath, as if she was to give a speech.

  ‘When I was a child,’ she said, ‘I used to come here with my parents. My grandmother lived in Dahlem and she’d take the U-Bahn to Tiergarten. I could run around while the grown-ups sat in in the café with their coffee and cake.’

  She stopped and pointed at the landscape.

  ‘It used to be a beautiful park.’ She sighed, as if to apologise, pointing to the crops that had been planted and the trees that had been felled. ‘But we have to eat, we have to cook and keep warm. Beauty is a luxury we can’t afford.’ He wondered what she thought now, about Hitler and his dream. So many of the scientists he talked to said politicians came and went, what did it matter to them? It was science they valued.

  ‘Where are your parents now?’ John said.

  She looked away. Her shoulder blades were sharp against her blouse, the vertebrae on her neck neat jacks stones in a row. When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I cannot talk about myself, please. Bitte.’

  John wondered what they could talk about if not themselves. Apart from the weather, there was nothing that seemed neutral.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen.’ She paused. ‘And a half. And you?’

  ‘Eighteen. And a half.’

  They laughed. Her teeth were uneven and her lips cracked but her smile made creases in her cheeks, the hint of a dimple.

  ‘When is your birthday?’ she said.

  ‘February. The nineteenth.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  He laughed as she gave a grimace of recognition and he reached for her spare hand, shaking it.

  ‘What are the chances of that? Sharing a birthday.’ This was, he thought, fate. He was excited, relieved too. Now they had something to talk about. ‘Tell me how people celebrate birthdays in Germany. Do you sing Happy Birthday?’

  ‘We have a birthday song,’ she said. She opened her mouth. ‘“Hoch soll er leben.”’ Her voice was light and clear, supple as a fiddle. She sang the words. The tune was catchy and he tried to sing with her, a word behind, a beat too late.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘there are songs we have the same, could sing together?’ He liked the idea of singing with her. ‘Ah. I know.’ He opened his mouth, hummed first, then sang. ‘Silent Night’. It took five bars, and she was singing with him, walking round the outer path, in harmony, in step.

  ‘I have another Christmas song,’ she said. ‘I can teach you all my songs. It’s a good way to learn language. A new way.’ She opened her mouth. He knew this tune too. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ by any other name.

  She turned, her eyes glistening, as if the music had lifted a weight, breathed life and energy into her. ‘This is fun,’ she said. ‘Let’s sing.’

  He wondered what else to sing. The school had had a good choir, but the repertory was classical. Even the folk songs were composed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to start on the Messiah, or the St Matthew Passion. Seemed a bit sombre for a first encounter. He turned, checked. Arthur was a discreet distance behind them.

  ‘I have a song,’ she said. ‘We would sing it as children.’ He’d seen film of the Hitler Youth on the Pathé newsreel at the cinema before the war. He could hear the commentator: These happy boys and girls are marching to the ‘Horst-Wessel Lied’. Raise the flag, they sing, the ranks tightly closed! They certainly put our Boy Scouts to shame… Had she been a member of the Hitler Youth, or whatever the girls’ equivalent was? Perhaps this was not such a good idea.

  ‘Muss i denn…’ she began. ‘Muss i denn…’ Hand on her heart. He wanted to reach out, to catch her crystal voice and let it echo in his memory, to hold her hands and draw her close. She was wonderful, this young woman, swathed in sadness and enigma. Perhaps love felt like this.

  ‘Tanz mit mir, Johann?’ She stopped singing, put down her bag with the jug. She curtsied, held her skirt wide and pointed her foot. He could see how she arched it, even inside the shabby lace-up shoes with the flapping sole. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Pom-pom, polka,’ she said. ‘Eins, zwei, drei. Eins, zwei, drei.’ She held her arms in front as if she were embraced by a partner, dipping, whirling, her skirt mushrooming round her legs, her hair flying behind her like a peacock’s train, tripping off the path out of sight into the shrubby bushes at the edge of the park, the skeletons of the spindly trees behind silhouetted against the pinking sky. She was entrancing, mesmerising. He couldn’t see her, she had gone.

  ‘Lieselotte,’ he called, searching, trying to glimpse her. ‘Lieselotte.’

  He turned to Arthur but he stood with his back to John, hunched as he lit a cigarette. She rounded a corner, came closer to him, breathless, her breasts rising and falling as she gasped the air.

  ‘Dance with me, Johann. Dance. Tanz.’ She grabbed his hands and swung his arms, her eyes shiny and wild. Her fingers were moist, electric, delicate. He wondered if she wasn’t touched in the head, if Arthur had seen this when he hadn’t, her moods swinging so fast from sombre to exuberant. She twisted away from him and he caught the odour of her perspiration, the must of her dusty hair as she pirouetted round and round, fast as a dervish, arms outstretched, eyes focused, round and round, her feet in their clumsy shoes rising and falling and turning in time to the deep rhythms in her head.

  She stumbled, fell panting to the earth.

  ‘I’m a little giddy,’ she said. ‘But I was an a
ngel, was I not, Johann? A hummingbird? A butterfly?’

  She was sweating, beads of moisture on her forehead and nose running down her neck, her thick hair tangled and matted. He thought she might be ill. It wasn’t normal to sweat so much.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I should take you home?’

  She pushed herself up on her elbows.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said. John held out his hand and she pulled herself up, brushing down her skirt, picking up her string bag with the jug and clutching it close.

  ‘I found it,’ she said, pointing. ‘A little chipped, but useful.’

  She shuffled on her feet. ‘Shall I give you another lesson?’

  ‘Is it over for today?’ He looked at his watch. It had been an hour. She had her eye on the time and he was wounded.

  ‘Johann, are you all right?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. A little bewildered. But yes, another lesson would be good.’

  ‘I let myself go,’ she said, wiping her hands across her cheeks. ‘For one hour, I let myself go.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ He shrugged.

  ‘When shall we meet then?’

  ‘Next Sunday,’ he said. ‘Same time? Same place?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not here.’

  She thought, puckering her brow.

  ‘They blew up Lichtensteinbrücke,’ she said. ‘But I’ve heard the razor wire has gone, and perhaps we can walk along the banks of the canal. It’s quiet.’ She nodded, sombre once more, and pointed with her finger. ‘It’s just down there, down that street that leads from the gardens.’

  ‘Let me walk you to the Tor.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She stood for a moment, added, ‘You have to pay me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot.’ He felt the hot grasp of a blush as he fumbled for the cigarettes. How stupid of him. She put them in her pocket, turned, swinging her bag with the chipped jug, walked away. He watched as she grew smaller and smaller.

  Arthur stepped forward, took his elbow.

  ‘Let’s find a bar,’ he said. ‘Before a redcap sees us.’

  Round a corner, out of view. She hadn’t looked back, not once.