Emma, when he told her about it shortly after her arrival, had disapproved.
‘People like us don’t get involved in that sort of thing,’ she’d said with a sniff, in that infuriating snobby way she had of making her opinions known.
Dennis knew that anything to do with the Black Market was anathema to most people who had struggled in England during the War. It was seen as unfair; somehow not playing the game; not British.
Sod that, thought Dennis. An opportunity this good wasn’t going to come again. Berlin was awash with suffering people that he could help out by relieving them of their valuables in exchange for as little as possible. A kilo of sugar here, a pound of butter there and then he could either sell on the goods for US dollars or barter them again for yet more valuable items. Watches. He had a drawer full of watches, the Russians were mad for them and would pay ridiculous prices, even for a tacky Mickey Mouse watch purloined from an American corpse, for a first edition or a work of art. Russian soldiers had no interest in art and culture. Sometimes he managed to sell half bottles of what might have been Scotch whisky for ridiculous sums. He preferred to be paid in jewellery; more portable and easily stashed away. The dollars the Russians gave him were suspect. They printed their own with US Treasury printing plates implausibly supplied by the Yanks in a spirit of co-operation. They worked when used to buy painkillers from the shifty night clerk in the US Army’s pharmacy, to be exchanged for more valuables down the line. So backwards and forwards it went and in the process it was making Dennis rich.
In whatever spare time he had away from the ‘office’, Dennis haunted the open-air markets at the ruined Reichstag or the Tiergarten, exchanging as little as he could for jewellery, rugs, furs, objects d’art and paintings. He was becoming quite an expert; able to value anything at a glance, with the help of an antiques directory he’d had sent over from London and knowledge gained from observation of his parents’ possessions. The sellers were often pathetically ignorant of or oblivious to the worth of their chattels, survival and food having taken precedence over temporarily worthless artefacts.
The ‘clients’ who came through Dennis’s office, whose paperwork he processed daily, also proved a rich source of bounty. The other day someone sold him the deeds to a plot of land in central Berlin (there had probably been a building on it at one time, now bombed out), in the right zone thank God, for a persilschein. Who the hell cared what the man had done in the War? He couldn’t do much damage now, Nazi or not. Dennis had found that people would do anything for a clean bill of health, a rubber stamp and a ration card.
He had to be careful that Bill Barton didn’t notice that he had let slip through the occasional person that Bill had suspicions of. But so many were processed day by day that it was quite simple to lose some that had suitable payment for their freedom.
A few weeks ago he’d had a stroke of luck. A German civilian came in, probably more to get out of the cold and get a free Red Cross cup of tea than anything. He didn’t seem interested in a persilschein or the possibility of a job. A filthy, ragged specimen with the stench of poverty and a graveyard cough, his name was Fritz Keller and only asking for help in getting the ration card he was entitled to as a released work-camp inmate. He had been interned for years because of his communist leanings. He supplied all the right paperwork as proof. His shifty eyes and demeanour gave him away as someone out for the main chance.
‘Perhaps you can help me, Herr Keller,’ said Dennis.
Keller brightened, somehow guessing immediately what was required of him.
‘Is there anything I can get for you, sir?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Furniture, art ... women? Almost anything can be bought at a price. For medicines, cigarettes, coffee, tinned food, soap.’
‘I think it’s possible that we could do business, Mr Keller. I’m looking for items of value, for the usual currency. Let me know what you can get and we’ll negotiate.’
Since that meeting Fritz Keller had put him in touch with the right people to buy what he needed. He proved particularly helpful over the property deals, knowing just who to approach to seal the legal details in the most discreet way possible. The last deal had cost him an Army vehicle ‘lost’ from the REME motor repair shop in a hazardous night-time raid. There had also been Fritz’s commission of course; several cartons of cigarettes. But it had been worth it.
Sometimes it gave Dennis great pleasure to refuse a persilschein. There had been a bastard the other day that had kicked up the hell of a stink; shouting all sorts of accusations about bribery and corruption. He had been a postman and had obviously been denouncing Jews to the Gestapo when he found them taking refuge in their neighbours’ houses. He had nothing worth trading, so Dennis had gleefully sent him to the cells from where he would eventually be taken to a camp, one of those used earlier to house Jews en-route to extermination, and later to trial for his sins. Served the Nazi bastard right. It made Dennis feel quite virtuous.
He wasn’t sorry that Emma had decided to leave, even after such a brief stay. Well, it had never been a joyful marriage. Miserable cow, he thought, always moaning, never satisfied. It’s true there isn’t much to do here, but she could have started a bridge club, if that’s what she wanted. She couldn’t be bothered and mooched about the flat all day, complaining of boredom. She couldn’t even make friends with Bill Barton’s pretty wife, who seemed amiable enough.
‘Such a common girl,’ Emma had said, sticking her sharp nose into the air. ‘I wouldn’t mix with her in Cheltenham; I don’t see why I should here.’
He couldn’t see it himself; Isabel Barton spoke and behaved perfectly properly.
‘It’s subtle,’ said Emma. ‘I know the signs. She’s far too friendly with that maid of hers. She doesn’t know how to treat servants. They need to be kept in their place. Anyway, she told me that her father works on the railways,’ Emma said this with the tones and expression of someone who had just had something smelling obnoxious thrust under her nose.
‘Isabel probably feels sympathy towards the maid. She comes from London, you know, saw a lot of bombing and horror, similar to what they’ve suffered here. We didn’t get much of that in Cheltenham, did we, dear?’ Most of their suffering had been in the form of inconvenience, rationing and shortages.
‘As for that man, John Marriott,’ Emma continued as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘swanning around like the Playboy of the Western World. What on earth’s he doing all the time? He spends half his days gallivanting with Isabel Barton, as far as I can tell. Shouldn’t he be making himself useful?’
Dennis decided not to reply to this. He had a fair idea of what Marriott was doing and it didn’t require sitting in an office all day. His fun and games with Mrs Barton probably acted as excellent cover. He knew he’d have to watch out for Marriott. He was well aware that if the man discovered Dennis’s black market activities he would be arrested, prosecuted and sent home pronto, in disgrace. They were supposed to be getting the German economy back on its feet, not undermining it with illicit trading and removing everything of value from the country.
Dennis had to take more care now. There had been developments making it impossible to use hard currency in payment for goods. American soldiers, doing very much what Denis did, buying and selling on the black market, had been sending home to their families more dollars than they legitimately earned, swamping the US with currency printed by the Russians willy-nilly without reference to the US Treasury department. This practice would be the ruin of the American economy if it continued unabated. Hence the new currency restrictions, much to the Russians’ disgust. Soldiers could now only use Occupation Currency, Baffs. But they still had their cigarettes and rations to trade if they wished to.
None of this affected Dennis. He had his own little business nicely sewn up and so long as John Marriott and Bill Barton kept their spiky, espionage-trained noses out of it, and with Fritz Keller’s help, he expected to return to England a very rich man.
Chapter Thirteen
; Berlin, October 1946
The foyer of the Hotel Moser buzzed with activity. In spite of threadbare patches in the carpet and the dust on the swagged curtains, the old hotel had managed to maintain an air of grandeur and dignity. Fake Fragonard murals still adorned the walls between the pillars even though the swinging maidens had faded curls and their garlands of flowers and sweeping skirts were washed-out pastels. The hallway remained in remarkable condition considering that this had been the watering hole for Nazi officers and later for the conquering Russians. But, as it had been used exclusively for the entertainment of the officers and had even served as a brothel in earlier times, it had escaped much of the vandalism seen in other buildings. Now it had been requisitioned as the Officers Mess by the English-speaking Allies and was used as a transit hotel for single officers between postings. Many evenings hosted social functions such as this.
Isabel watched as the elderly German retainers, if not exactly bustling, indeed often hobbling with hunched backs and stiff knees, balanced trays of drinks and canapés with dignity and aplomb as they weaved between the arriving guests.
‘Entschuldigen, meine Herren; gnädige Frau,’ they murmured as they manoeuvred through the throng.
This was a cocktail party arranged for officers and their families to which similar ranks from other forces were invited amid an atmosphere of camaraderie and esprit de corps.
‘Daahling,’ Zelda always pronounced this word as if it contained a whole string of a’s. She stood behind Isabel, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t be nervous, you look wunderbar!’
Isabel wore a new cocktail dress, courtesy of Zelda’s dressmaker, very a la mode with a peplum, a long frill at the waist that hung to hip level and longer at the back and a full skirt almost to her ankles. It was in a brilliant peacock blue taffeta that perfectly suited Isabel’s colouring. The dress fitted her figure to perfection and had edged her confidence up a few notches. A chic finger-tip length coat in the same fabric, with a swinging double pleat at the back, completed her outfit, protecting her against the sharpening autumn wind, as the jeep that had brought them here was open to the elements. The coat was borne away by a porter with the delicate chiffon scarves that they had used to protect their newly curled hair. Zelda’s maid was a wonderful hairdresser.
They spotted Bill and John in the distance in the domed reception hall. Isabel could also see Dennis and Emma on the other side of the room, keeping to themselves. Isabel waved but they didn’t seem to see her. They stood huddled together, ignoring those around them in shyness or disdain, their faces compressed in habitual distaste.
‘Bill looks so handsome in his uniform,’ Zelda purred. ‘Yum, Isabel. If you ever don’t want him, can I have him please?’
Isabel was getting used to Zelda’s often-outrageous utterances. As she regarded Bill from out here, looking at him almost as a stranger would from another room, she could only agree. He did look marvellous with his perfectly tailored uniform tunic moulded to his torso and the beautifully pressed trousers. Isabel shook her head and tore her gaze away as she felt a wave of desire tinged with sadness sweep through her.
‘No, you can’t, you brazen hussy,’ she answered, tapping Zelda playfully on the hand. ‘He’s mine. Anyway, here’s Chuck.’
Charles Hoffstetter had entered behind them and was removing his cap. His cropped hair was greying and he was several inches shorter than his wife, even more noticeable when Zelda was wearing high heels. His kindly, cheerful face mirrored his nature.
‘Darling!’ Zelda pecked him on the cheek and straightened his already immaculate tie. At that moment the fifteen-year age difference between them was most apparent. Zelda, wearing a black satin cocktail dress, looked like a bright shining jewel beside her homely husband.
‘I love him to bits,’ Zelda had confided. ‘My family thought I was mad to marry him and then having to come to Europe and all. But I adore him. He’s so…so steady.’
And it doesn’t hurt that he adores you, thought Isabel, there’s nothing like devotion to intensify affection. Now, she watched Chuck flush slightly, but characteristically he didn’t shake off Zelda’s touch as Bill would have done, but grasped her hand and kissed the fingers. Sadly, Isabel realised that Bill would have commented and seen it as an embarrassing affront in this public place. Isabel sighed. Had it come to this?
Isabel heard a roar. A great bear of a man was storming towards their small group with outspread arms and a determined air. He brought with him the odour of cheap wool and strong spirits.
‘Chuck! I vas hoping I vould see you.’
To Chuck’s obvious embarrassment the huge man drew him into his arms and hugged him vigorously.
‘Introduce me to your wife, you old dog,’ the man chortled in his rich accent as he released the American, accompanying his words with a playfully rough nudge.
Chuck suppressed a wince and complied. ‘Oleg Kolinsky, Russian Liaison. Oleg, my wife Zelda and Isabel Barton. You know Bill Barton? Isabel just recently arrived from the UK.’
The Russian’s eyes narrowed for a second as he regarded Isabel. He recovered quickly. ‘Such luffly ladies, I am charming to meet you. Come, we must get you a drink. This evening is to enjoy ourselves is it not?’
Oleg bent over their hands and kissed them briefly, his thick moustache tickling their skin. His huge hand was clad in thick dark grey hair, reminding Isabel of loose wire wool. The massive shoulders were clothed in shabby khaki much like all the other officers, but cut on a generous scale. A spectacular array of medal ribbons was displayed on his chest. They must have represented a considerable weight when he wore his dress uniform and all the medals in full splendour.
Capturing a hand from each lady and tucking them under his armpits he led them into the reception room.
‘Wodka,’ he bellowed. ‘Wodka. If you have any worth drinking in this God-forsaken dump.’ He roared with uninhibited laughter at his wit and Isabel and Zelda took the opportunity to slip from his grasp to greet Bill and John.
‘Hello, darling. I don’t seem to have seen you for days. Zelda...’ Bill kissed them both. ‘I’ll get you a drink. Gin and tonic? The tonic’s not up to much, but at least it covers the taste of the dreadful gin.’ An old joke, but they all laughed just the same.
John came up beside Isabel. He lifted her hand and kissed it, a smile lighting his beautiful blue eyes.
‘Looking as gorgeous as ever, Mrs B. There’s someone I want you to meet. Wait a mo. She’s over there, flirting with the French. I’ll go and get her.’
Isabel looked across the room to where John had pointed. A lovely titian-haired girl was chatting animatedly to a group of French officers who, judging by their uninhibited laughter, were much taken with her. So this must be Anya, the White Russian girl that John saw so much of. She was certainly very attractive, built with a small compact body that reminded her of the pert little blond Agnes she had worked with in London, but with softer musculature and not an ounce of fat, due no doubt, to the shortages of war.
‘What’s a White Russian, Bill?’ she had asked.
‘As opposed to a Red, Soviet Russian, you mean? Well, many Russian families escaped the revolution in 1917 and after the First War, and some of them settled in Germany. They hate communism and Joe Stalin most of all. But there are some Russians with the same hatred of Soviet imperialism who left Russia more recently. They took the opportunity to leave during the War. I think Anya may be one of those.’
Isabel watched John go over and whisper in Anya’s ear. Poor girl, she thought, to leave your country and family like that. It must be hard for her, harder than for me, I can always go home again. I don’t suppose she can look forward to much future if she goes back to Russia. Isabel thought of the pogroms they had heard rumours of. Russia was proving to be a brutal ally and there was disquiet about their behaviour to their own people and those of other countries that they had overrun and occupied at the end of the war.
John and Anya approached Bill and Isabe
l. Anya stretched out both hands towards Isabel, a high-wattage smile lighting her face.
‘Isabel - I may call you that? I have been so looking forward to meeting you. John has told me so much about you and you are just as beautiful as he said!’
Isabel was struck dumb, not quite knowing how to respond to this effusive outburst, delivered in almost perfect English. Somehow she stumbled through what she hoped was an equally enthusiastic reply.
John rescued her. ‘There’s dancing in the ballroom. Someone’s playing the piano and Bertie Haynes has got out his saxophone. Come on, Anya, let’s go and jitterbug. You too, Isabel; get that lazy husband of yours to join in. I know you’re a wonderful dancer,’ he winked suggestively. ‘A star of the London stage, I hear.’
‘Ssh, John,’ Isabel glanced around. ‘I don’t want everyone to know. The colonel’s wife thinks I’m a tart already.’
‘Sorry, old thing, won’t mention it again.’
Many couples crowded the ballroom and a thick fog of cigarette smoke hung in the air. The pianist and Bertie Haynes were accomplished musicians and they knew all the old standards and more recent popular tunes. Luckily they seemed to be almost inexhaustible so long as they were plied with plenty of beer. Bill and Isabel’s jitterbug turned into a virtual exhibition dance as the people near them stood back to watch. Isabel could see that Bill hated the attention so she pleaded exhaustion and they sat down on the dusty banquettes surrounding the dance floor. ‘Whew, I must be getting old.’ Bill wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
There was little chance of a rest for Isabel as there were many more men than women in the room and a shortage of partners. One of the French officers borrowed her for an energetic polka and John swept her around the floor in a giddying Viennese waltz. Then Oleg grabbed her in a drunken embrace and spun her around the room in some sort of mad Russian whirlwind, nearly overwhelming her with the scent of body odour and vodka and ploughing through anyone in his way. When she finally tried to extricate herself from his sweaty clasp he didn’t want to let her go.
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