The Chief of Protocol’s villa was nestled behind tall evergreens. The front door opened as he walked up. Inside, a butler helped him with his coat. Von Helmholtz came into the vestibule. “You found it.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Hanbury noted the absence of the sound of two hundred babbling voices. The house was dignified and still. Von Helmholtz took him into a sitting room where his other guests, six of them, nested agreeably around a coffee table. The introduction of the consul over with, they went back to anecdotes about their previous summer’s vacations. Hanbury listened to the camaraderie and stole glances at the women. Lovely women, veiled more than dressed, reposed in comfortable chairs, wearing thin silky materials plunging at the front and back. One of them – with her size and shape he was sure she was a fashion model – wore an exquisite lavender minidress. Hanbury’s attention shifted to the room. Paintings were crowded together on the walls. It came as no surprise that von Helmholtz was an art lover, but why so many landscapes? Meadows in spring, dramatic forests, lakes between mountains, strong skies. Pretty paintings. Von Helmholtz saw Hanbury studying them. “My wife,” he said. “Most of them are hers. I love the countryside and she did too. Shall we go in for dinner?”
The table was round. Hanbury sat directly opposite the host. A chandelier hung low so that the light fused the group into a warm conspiracy. Von Helmholtz rose and began to speak.
“I once heard a story about a caliph who remarked that although he had a thousand friends, he had not one to spare.” His voice was introspective. “With the many intrigues in the caliph’s court no doubt he needed all of them. I don’t have a thousand, but those I have I treasure. I too have none to spare.”
Before-dinner speeches are opportunities to express what otherwise is merely thought. The dinner table was still. Where would von Helmholtz’s remarks take the guests? They waited, scarcely hearing pots distantly clanging in the kitchen.
“I met all of you professionally, but we soon reached past that. We went through the professional veneer. I value that.” Von Helmholtz asked them to listen to a quote from Longfellow.
“Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.”
The guests absorbed this. The silence remained immaculate. The host’s drift was, if anything, becoming more inscrutable, not less. Von Helmholtz began to talk of art, of Longfellow’s view of art, how it reaches into the future. He implied that artists, through their work, acquire immortality. How do we measure up, he seemed to be asking, or rather, how did he measure up? Some guests thought he was saying he had lived a life devoid of art, that he was hearing muffled drums, that soon his friends would be all he would have left and without them, without them remembering him, he had no chance of reaching beyond the grave. The guests, trying to fathom if this was his meaning, didn’t move a muscle. But if a gate to some secret garden of vulnerability was creaking open, in the next instant it resolutely clicked shut. From one breath to the next, the sentimentality in von Helmholtz’s posture disappeared. In the muted chandelier light, he drew himself to his full height. He shifted grounds, beginning to describe the times. He called them alienating. Reason enough, he said, echoing the caliph, for being careful with one’s friends.
Von Helmholtz looked them over. His attention lingered on the slender woman wearing the lavender minidress on his immediate right who, Hanbury saw, was the least solemn at the table. Her faint smile at the silver-haired aristocrat had a touch of amusement. It seemed to say he deserved full marks for dramatic effort, but was this the right occasion? She had some influence on him, because von Helmholtz met her eyes and immediately shook off his introspection. He began narrating stories of crossed paths and the web of events which brought them together that evening. Cordula, a theatre director, Viktoria, in charge of Berlin’s heritage office, Jürgen, a writer, Anna, a designer, Richard, a lawyer married to Viktoria.
Von Helmholtz went around the table introducing each guest. The name of Hanbury’s birth place, Indian Head, was mentioned. “I found it in the atlas,” von Helmholtz said. “A dot on North America’s Great Plains. I have a passion for studying maps of continents. ‘How do people live there?’, one asks. What are the customs and traditions? What characterizes the landscape? When Consul Hanbury told me about the prairies, I visualized people spread thinly over a vast area, living without limitations.” Hanbury wasn’t comfortable with this focus on his home town. He never thought that Indian Head was a place to be idealized, to be seen as some kind of earthly paradise.
The host turned last to the teasingly bemused, black-haired woman on his right, Gundula Jahn. Hanbury was sure one of her forebears millennia ago must have been a model too, sitting for one of those perfect, priceless Greek statues. The expression of irony etched around her eyes said she viewed everything around her as a spectacle to enjoy. She was new in Berlin also and wouldn’t be at this dinner were it not for German reunification. Von Helmholtz said she was a journalist and described her talent, the first East German reporter hired by the largest paper in West Berlin. “I can always read what’s on Gundula’s mind,” he added fondly, a hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “The first thing I do every day is turn to her column.” The friendly mockery in the journalist’s smile intensified.
During dinner Hanbury observed that von Helmholtz’s hand occasionally touched Gundula Jahn’s, massaging it, letting go. The touching scenes came and went. Young people, Sturm said, that’s what he likes. The dinner conversation, as always in Berlin, turned to Berlin. Berlin then, Berlin now, and Berlin to come. Viktoria, sitting beside Hanbury, guardian of the city’s heritage, talked of its architecture, what was gone, what remained, what would come. He admired her strong facial features, auburn hair and a bare shoulder so close he could brush it with his own. She talked about the extraordinary decade of transition now in full swing. Living in Berlin was like being in a newsreel, Viktoria declared. Endless, fascinating footage day after day.
Richard, her husband, had a bullying appearance. He attacked East Berlin, which he said was filled with buildings that resembled bunkers. “It’s incredible what the East Germans destroyed,” he said. “Take one example. They destroyed the Kaiser’s Palace because they couldn’t separate architecture from politics. The French Revolution didn’t blow up Versailles. The Bolsheviks didn’t take down the Kremlin. But the East Germans blew up the palace. A country that dynamites its heritage dynamites its people.”
“The palace was bombed in the war,” Gundula Jahn said. She had been quiet until then.
“But it could have been saved,” Richard countered. “It could have been restored. Had Stalin slept there once they would have kept it. They wanted a big square in East Berlin – like Red Square in Moscow – for the May Day parades. That’s why they blew it up. I’m for rebuilding a replica. We need our traditions back.”
A debate on this and related issues was in full swing. “Why?” Cordula said suddenly, coming out of a slouch. “Why?” she repeated loudly. “Why would we want that palace rebuilt? I don’t find that part of the past too edifying. That’s the problem here. The past is too recent; it hangs over us. We’re dwarfed by it. Ever thought about all the patched bullet holes on the Reichstag? Do we need those kinds of reminders every day on every street? There’s only one solution to this problem. Run away. I vote we run to Consul Hanbury’s country. Let’s be dwarfed by nature for a change.”
A silence settled as this perspective was digested. Von Helmholtz, who had been leaning back, came forward. Having seen the fires of war in his youth, night after night, block after block, everything going up in flames, he talked of the fickleness of urban landscapes. Without warning, he turned to Hanbury. “And what about towns on the Canadian prairies? Tell us about Indian Head.” Hanbury was taken aback, unsure where to start. “Yes,” said Richard sarcastically. “Indian Head. Indianerkopf. What happened? Did the cavalry
charge and decapitate the savages?”
“Oh no,” Hanbury answered pleasantly. “That kind of thing happened further south. No, no. The name is taken from a nearby butte, the forward edge of a small range of hills. When the sun rises above the horizon and the butte lights up, it has the profile of a head. The Indians called it that. They used it to spot buffalo.” Viktoria’s husband scowled, seemingly disappointed no blood had flowed. Hanbury continued. “The prairies are always changing. One day they’re barren and cruel, then they become like the garden of Eden. Strong contradictions. People get addicted to it. No place for Berliners. It’s too wide open.” He looked at Richard.
“You underestimate Berliners,” Richard replied coldly.
Gundula Jahn’s gaze had been shifting back and forth between Hanbury and Viktoria’s husband, but now came to rest on the consul.
“You must explain, Tony,” von Helmholtz interrupted. “Cruel landscapes? Garden of Eden? A touch dramatic?”
“I’ll tell you,” Hanbury said feeling the journalist’s steady, marble-chiselled gaze. “Imagine a place so flat that the horizon circles around, the feeling of being on an ocean where space is difficult to define. And no reference points, apart from a river valley here or there cut out over the millennia. The horizon is the boundary. Where’s the horizon in Berlin? The façade across the street?”
“Nothing wrong with a façade across the street,” Richard said. “I’m explaining why some people here wouldn’t cope with the openness there.”
“But you’re the exception,” said Cordula lazily from deep back in her chair.
“An exceptional man, no doubt about it,” mocked Richard.
“Go on,” said Anna, the designer who had said little. “Tell us more.”
The consul shrugged. “There’s not much more. Well, there’s the climate. One year it’s paradise, the next, the land shrivels up. Scorching heat in summer. No limits to the cold in winter. The only constant all year round is light. In winter the light is so hard you think the sky will crack. Even at night there’s light, the northern light, dancing light. Colours leaping through the sky reflected on the snow. What’s light like in Berlin in winter?”
This forced a pause. Wine glasses were refilled. The party sought a new topic. Richard’s combativeness had been filed down and he was quieter. It seemed Anna was the only one who didn’t want to depart the notion of wide open spaces just yet. “I would like to go to a place with light like that. I’ve always wanted to go to Russia to absorb its soul. But maybe it’s simpler to go to your prairies. Do they have soul?”
“Soul!” said Cordula rising up once more. “That’s my favourite subject. Good theatre is pure soul. Good actors need ample soul. And fine directors have magnificent soul.” Cordula’s energy gathered. “I want to mention another kind of soul – soul as a weapon that goes to battle for others. I know only one person who has that kind of soul. Gerhard, a toast to you.” Von Helmholtz protested, but seven glasses pointed in his direction. Following this, they retired to his study where a relieved Hanbury wasn’t pressed to answer Anna’s question about prairie soul.
The party was ending. Viktoria was the first to say she was tired and departed with her husband. Cordula asked that a taxi be called and shared the ride with Jürgen and Anna. Soon, only von Helmholtz, Gundula Jahn and Hanbury remained. Together they engaged in small talk. Suddenly it dawned on Hanbury that the two would want to be alone. “I had no idea it’s become so late. I’m sorry.” He wanted to call a taxi too.
Von Helmholtz saw no need for the consul to rush off. “I’m a night owl,” he explained.
“I can give you a lift,” Gundula Jahn offered. Hanbury, confused by this, didn’t immediately respond. He was about to remark it would be a bother when von Helmholtz said, “Accept, Tony. I would.” He shrugged and mumbled thanks.
At the door von Helmholtz kissed Gundula on both cheeks and shook the consul’s hand. Walking towards Gundula’s car, Hanbury said the air had become chilly. She agreed. “At least it’s no longer raining,” he said, “but it’s damp. Look at the halo around the streetlight.” She sent him the same, amused, full-marks-for-trying look von Helmholtz had received. Across the street a small square car, a little box on four spindly wheels was waiting. “This is it,” she said. “Ever ridden in a Trabi?” She got in, reached over, and undid the other door. Crouching down, squeezing in, Hanbury said, “No, but better late than never. Years ago I visited East Berlin a few times, but had no chance to ride in a Trabi. If I’d got in one, I’m sure the Stasi would have arrested me, plus the person taking me along. Isn’t that the way they operated? Were you ever arrested?”
“Not arrested,” Gundula said softly. “But they spied on me. I’ve seen my file. It’s thorough.”
Hanbury wanted to ask more. But in the night’s cold damp the motor wouldn’t catch. Gundula turned the ignition key repeatedly. “I actually like this car,” she said, “but it’s really shitty when it doesn’t start.” She turned the key a few more times and beat the gas pedal to the floor. The motor turned over pointlessly. As the battery emptied, the sound became a slow sick breathing, and with a last groan the machine was dead. “Shit,” Gundula said, hitting the steering wheel with both palms. “Shit, shit.”
“I’ll give you a push. We used to do that all the time in winter in Indian Head. The winter made people feel they were part of a collective.”
“How wonderful,” Gundula said sarcastically. “There’s only you here. Hardly a collective.”
“Two is all we need. I push, you steer. When I yell you let the clutch up. OK?”
The Trabi was light and the road had dried. Even in dress shoes, Hanbury had enough traction. Gundula steered down the middle of the road, the consul yelled, the Trabi bucked and heaved, but the motor caught. Gundula raced off. At the end of the block, she turned around and made her way back in first gear. The Trabi made an uneven, tinny noise, the sound of something sick coughing into an empty drum. As the motor sputtered, clouds of smoke pulsed out the back. “We could have used you in the GDR,” said Gundula, all smiles.
The consul felt on top. “Collectivism has its moments.”
“That’s not funny,” laughed Gundula, driving off.
“When I first saw you this evening, I took you for a BMW woman,” he said. “All the women in Berlin who look like you drive silent BMWs. I guess they want to feel power, but not hear it.”
“I like my Trabi,” said Gundula.
“What does that mean? Lots of noise; not much speed?”
“That’s mean.”
They were soon driving through the blackness of the Grunewald. The Trabi was beginning to produce some warmth and the defrost was making progress. The car’s comfort wasn’t much, but Gundula’s company made up for it. She said, “Good thing you took on that Richard. Why are lawyers like that? It doesn’t matter where they get their training: East, West, they all turn into shitheads.”
“Some of them are nice enough,” Hanbury said, thinking of Müller.
“The ones in the East were bad. They didn’t even stick to the law. So you’re from some place called Indian Head. It made me think back to my childhood. I liked stories about Indians.”
On the city autobahn, Gundula pushed her Trabi to the limits. It clattered like a skeleton. Over the noise, the consul asked if it needed a tune-up, maybe a ring job.
“A what?” asked Gundula just as loudly.
“A ring job,” Hanbury called above the noise. “You’re burning oil!”
“It’s supposed to burn oil. It’s a two-stroke engine.”
“That’s for lawnmowers.”
“Lay off,” laughed Gundula.
Near the exhibition grounds, Hanbury gave directions for leaving the autobahn. When they turned into his neighbourhood, Gundula said she’d never been to this part of town. She lived on the other side, in East Berlin.
“You’re welcome to come this way anytime. That’s my place.”
“A lovely house.”
>
“A bit small. I’m supposed to entertain. It isn’t big enough for that.”
“Squeeze them in. It’s cosier. Well, good night. Thanks for playing cowboy.”
“Next time I’ll wear my boots,” Hanbury said, getting out.
He wanted to ask her other questions – about a childhood spent reading Indian stories, about her relationship with the Chief of Protocol, about her Stasi file – but he had time for only one. “Tell me,” he said leaning down into the car, “talking about being spied on by the Stasi, ever heard of somebody called Günther Rauch?”
“Of course,” Gundula said. “Everybody’s heard of Günther Rauch. He was famous for a while. Good night. And thanks again for pushing.” She revved the engine. Blue smoke spewed out. Hanbury slammed the door. As the Trabi disappeared, the acrid smell of half burned oil lingered in the air.
OLYMPIA
East of Berlin, sixty kilometres away runs the Oder River, an idyllic waterway which the Allies decided should be Germany’s new eastern border in 19ffl. The land is relatively flat, an exception being a ridge not far from the river. German defenders massed here as the war was ending; thirty thousand Red Army soldiers died getting to the top. From there, their run to the capital of the Third Reich was unhindered.
A different age.
The geography that once allowed the Soviets to shift their tanks into high gear is also good for cycling, and weekend racers attack the landscape like a Tour de France. It isn’t only youth that’s burning up the roads. The over-sixty crowd is out too, like Albert Müller, except he’s over eighty. Shortly after the Wall came down, the Eagles claimed the roads winding from village to village east of Berlin. Since the distance from the Oder to the Olympic Stadium in Berlin is a good day’s run, they organized a race. Every autumn now, old men in a thin line streak through the Brandenburg countryside. Fifty years after the Russians, they’re the ones encircling Berlin. The event,To Olympia, helps them fantasize they’re still in their prime.
The Berlin Assignment Page 16