ON EARTH AND IN HEAVEN
Albert Müller – provider, competitor, practised non-conformist and sometime father-figure to a member of the Berlin diplomatic corps – died suddenly in his sleep. The direct cause of death, pneumonia, he once vaguely predicted. But it really began with a fall from his bike when he broke three ribs.
Word flashed through the Eagle community and the collective foreboding was immediate. Not a few of them had that late-life habit of calculating when they went to bed what the chances were of getting through the night and seeing the next day. When a comrade doesn’t make it, the calculation seems to worsen. The Eagles’ mood at that evening’s crisis meeting in a Charlottenburger pub was sombre. No wisecracks rippled back and forth across the table. They stared into their glasses. At last, Rudi Metzger, the oldest living Eagle, spoke.
Mensch! he croaked into the morose stillness. Was seid Ihr alle für Angsthasen! He accused them of shivering like scared rabbits in a burrow. “Where’s the Eagle spirit?” he demanded. “Do we crash when it’s time to soar? Don’t forget, Albert’s looking down. I’d say right now he’s disgusted, seeing us crying in our beer. I’ll tell you what he’d say if he were here.” Rudi’s voice changed, suddenly sounding like Albert. Mouths around the table fell open. Had Rudi transcended, had he become a pipeline linking heaven with earth?
Eagles! I always wanted to win. I’ve done it. I got here first. And I’ve an early observation: up here all the roads slant down and the wind blows only from the rear. I’ve got to say it, heaven beats Brandenburg hands down.
As Rudi spoke, his eyes lifted to the dark beams of the ceiling, but now he lowered them and glowered. “That’s what he’d say. I’m sure of it. Let’s drink to Albert.” His voice was back to being old and raspy. Mugs were raised, but eyes remained trained on the table top. They saw Albert leaning into a curve, full tilt, afterwards berating younger legs for being timid. But, little by little, a murmur started and finally Horst Baumann asked for attention. He believed a delegation should be named to liaise with the next of kin on funeral arrangements. This launched a practical debate which dispersed the sombreness.
Hanbury learned of Müller’s death through the weekend paper.
The last time they were in The Tankard the old man had been bothered by a rumbling cough that came from deep inside. Since then, shackled to his schedule, Hanbury twice missed the weekly trek to Spandau. He made a mental note to contact Müller, but kept postponing it. On Sunday morning – the stereo was playing – Hanbury paged idly through the paper. His eye passed over the obituary page. He almost didn’t notice the announcement:Albert Müller, Rechtsanwalt. In fact, he finished turning the page and flipped back only because he thought he had seen something familiar.
Curiosity was his first reaction. Someone with the same name and profession as Müller? Then came alarm. He worried, yet did not fully believe, this was his Müller. Then the full truth settled like a huge weight on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He felt hot. He felt cold. His hands rose to his mouth and stuck there. His drinking companion, his instructor in the finer points of life was dead? Hanbury’s eyes bulged with horror.
He crumpled the paper, got up, slammed a button to silence the stereo and walked in silent circles. He went to the window to look at the empty street. Finally, no longer able to bear it, Hanbury broke down and sobbed like a child. He had not experienced this depth of feeling any of the other times he encountered death.
Pulling himself together, he returned to the paper. He smoothed it against the floor and read three In Memoriam announcements for Müller. The first, an elegantly sized notice, was from the family and carried the names of Sabine, Werner and Nicholas. It said:He was suddenly taken from us, but in our memory he lives. A second came from the Legal Association which recalled his high standards as a lawyer. The third was from his club.
ALBERT MÜLLER
Leader Amongst Eagles.
His friendship warmed us.
He soared to heights which others shunned.
Hanbury was looking at the words but was seeing Müller: Müller cussing him for living on the sidelines; Müller at the Olympic Stadium, beet red with effort and in love with physical exhaustion; Müller judging his fellow man, with mischief oozing from every wrinkle on his face; Müller seeing absurdity everywhere he looked and loving absurdity everywhere he saw it. The difference between Müller and most everybody else, Hanbury realized, was the difference between gazing down from the heights and gaping up from the trenches. Müller took life both seriously and as nonsense. He harboured no ill will; he had no hard feelings; he was never sentimental. He let people be and he – semi-detached, quietly, in his own way – carried on.
Still on the floor, Hanbury had an urge to go to the place where Müller always glittered:The Tankard. Make a pilgrimage, sit there, mimic Müller’s art of living.
Outside, the day hung in suspense. Light filtered down through pinholes in a celestial pewter sheet. As Hanbury began the march to Spandau, a wind picked up and the pewter fractured into dark inky patches edged with violet. For a while, in the west, as on the day when Müller claimed his thirty-third spot, the light was dramatic, but the sky closed up once more. An intermittent rain began and when Hanbury finally stood on Müller’s street a storm was flailing about in earnest. He looked at the dark windows of the house and observed a minute of silence, then doubled back to The Tankard. Uwe’s son-in-law behind the bar was busy wiping glasses.
Hanbury took off his jacket and with a flapping motion scattered water in a wide perimeter. “Herr Konsul,” Uwe’s son-in-law said. “You’re the last I expected. The usual?” Hanbury nodded. “I got the news.” Uwe’s son-in-law, working the tap, skimming off excess foam, was silent until he had created a tankard with a perfect head which he placed before his customer. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said once more. “I only ever saw you with Herr Müller. You’re welcome anytime naturally. Alone or otherwise.”
“How did you learn he died?”
“Ilse told me. She heard about it at the baker.”
“Do you know how it happened?”
“At first there was an accident, but it couldn’t have been too bad. He was alive when he went into the hospital. The hospital did the rest. Hospitals!” Uwe’s son-in-law shook his head in disgust. “Ilse and I kept Uwe out of the hospital. He lived another year because of that. It wasn’t much, but it gave him time to think about the end.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Riding in the forest. A blackout. Crashed into a tree. Broke some ribs. You know, you can live with broken ribs. But what do doctors do? They operate!” Uwe’s son-in-law made signs of a deeply felt abomination.
“Is that when he died?”
“Not right away, but it was the operation all the same. Those doctors, they work fast. They were cutting into poor Herr Müller before anyone could stop them.” He shook his head thinking how his best customer had fallen into the devil’s clutches. “The reason I know this is because his daughter came in, Frau Schwartz. Nice looking lady. No resemblance to her father. Know her?”
Hanbury’s heart skipped a beat. He sipped through the foam and with the back of his hand wiped his upper lip. “She was here?” he asked casually. “I used to know her. We sat over there back then, Uwe, Müller, his daughter, myself. Those were good times.”
“Is that how it was? Well, as I was saying, Frau Schwartz came in. She said he’d been well enough to talk about his accident. He told her he was convinced he should have had more speed. The tree he hit wasn’t all that big, he said. If he’d gone faster he would have felled the thing, like those karate artists, you know, the ones that smash through bricks. The trick is to have momentum.”
“What did he die of if it wasn’t the tree?”
“His lungs filled with water. As if the doctors didn’t know that would happen if they operated.” Uwe’s son-in-law closed his eyes once more at the satanic goings-on in hospitals, then rustled in a drawer behind
the bar. “Frau Schwartz gave me a photo to remember Herr Müller. I appreciated that.” He took out a frame and studied the picture. Suddenly he peered at Hanbury, then back at the picture and shook his head. “I’m damned,” he said. He beamed and handed Hanbury the photo. “Here. That’s you. You’re in it.” The bartender looked happy as a cherub that a younger version of his client was now residing in his drawer.
“This can’t be. I didn’t know this picture existed,” Hanbury said. It was the four of them twenty-five years before. Uwe was pulling a mock angry face; Müller, hair sticking out like Einstein, had puffed up his chest like a prize fighter; Hanbury, half-turned, held up a glass and smirked as if he had a deep love for the camera; and Sabine – how old was she? twenty-one, maybe twenty-two – she looked so fine it took his breath away. “She takes after her mother,” he said, studying the moody veil that hung around her eyes. “In looks, she wasn’t like her father.”
“That’s what I just said too.”
“Why did she bring it in?”
“She was sorting his things. She said the picture belongs here, that the people in it belonged together when it was taken and they deserve to be together, here in The Tankard. Maybe you can hang it on the wall, she said. That got me thinking about history. So we’re going to create a picture gallery of our customers on the stairway down to the toilets. I asked Frau Schwartz about the third guy – you. I didn’t realize it was you. Who’s the clown with the grin? I asked. Anyone that grins like that should wear a headband to prevent his face from cracking open. Sorry, Herr Konsul. It’s the truth. Here look at you. You’re nearly unrecognizable. Herr Müller would’ve called you a Knautschkommode.”
“Knautschkommode?”
“Sort of an accordion. With that grin someone should have taken you by the ears and pushed and pulled to get a squeak out. I said that to Frau Schwartz.”
Hanbury had a strange sensation. Sabine talking with Uwe’s son-in-law about him? “And she said?”
“She laughed. She said I was close. She complimented me on my understanding of human nature. Well…” Thick lips pursed in modesty. “…why else am I a bartender? She really is a great lady. She said back then, if you were anything, you were a Flitzpieper, a little bird that flits around. I had to laugh. Ilse was like that when I met her. She wasn’t reliable either. Maybe he’s grown out of it, Frau Schwartz then said, referring to the figure in the photo. I didn’t know it was you, but if I had I would have told her you are now a VIP. I liked Frau Schwartz. She made me promise to look after the picture. It was a day or two ago.”
Rain driven by wind assailed the windows. Hanbury on the bar stool was motionless. Only a fraction of his mind was listening to the bartender’s descriptions of other candidates for the new picture gallery next to the toilets. Mostly he was sifting through what he’d heard. Suppose the account of Sabine’s visit to The Tankard was only partly accurate; even with that limitation her attitude was light years different from at the stadium. There, she would have trampled on the photo. Here she wanted the bartender to put it on display. He continued the rhythm of lifting and lowering his Pils, but his innards churned. What belonged together has to stay together. Why would she say that? Hanbury’s sadness about Albert’s death was acquiring an overlay of hope.
He paid for the Pils, zipped his jacket high and eased into the rain. A dash to the U-bahn was followed by the steady rocking of the train. The hypnotic effect helped with the mental composition of a note. In the bungalow he put it down on paper, sealed it in an envelope and, resolve undiminished, walked it to a mailbox before retiring for the night.
Dear Sabine: I saw the notice in the paper. I am deeply sorry your father passed away. No one was like him. Parts of him belonged to many people, but no one has lost as much as you. I feel your sorrow.
The only person I know who came close to having your father’s pleasure in living was Uwe. I remember the two of them sharing stories. If only those moments could have been recorded. Was it Uwe who once called me a Flitzpieper? Whoever it was, no doubt he was right, but of course it was long ago.
With the support of your family and friends I hope you will get through this and find the strength to carry on. – Tony.
Rudi Metzger and Horst Baumann were calling on Frau Schwartz in her apartment. Horst was doing the talking. Rudi confirmed all he said by whispering,Jenau, so isses. That’s it, that’s right. Sabine was composed as she poured tea. She said she knew the Eagles meant a great deal to her father.
Sabine had discovered there was no choice but to maintain composure. Many people needed to express their sadness; she was the only one they could do it to. The trauma of the accident, the roller-coaster days in the intensive care unit, the few last precious conversations she and her father had – he partly flippant, partly earnest, she hanging on every word – the phone call from the doctor that it was all over. Then came the burden of funeral arrangements, notices to be sent out, innumerable decisions to be made. And everyone who had a claim on her father’s time now wanted to claim some of hers. Where in all this was there time for grief?
Tony’s note arrived an hour before Herr Metzger and Herr Baumann came. She read it twice and put it with the others. What the two Eagles were saying reminded her of Tony’s note. They too claimed her father had meant a great deal and had belonged to them, although they knew her loss was greater. She thought back to the note. It had a feel of wanting to communicate something subtly, but what? Flitzpieper. The word struck her. Words like that popped out of her like they did out of her father. She remembered using it recently at The Tankard. But back then, had Uwe really called Tony a Flitzpieper? She didn’t recall.
She listened to Horst who was describing the meeting of the Eagles and slowly coming to the point: the Eagles hoped to play a small role in the funeral ceremony. “In what way?” she inquired kindly. “We had hoped,” Horst said solemnly, “that Rudi – Herr Metzger – might speak.” “So isses,” confirmed Rudi. Sabine nodded, but it demonstrated a thinking process, not that she had decided. “The day of the funeral hasn’t been settled. It’s difficult to get a slot,” she said. “Jenau!” agreed Rudi, adding he knew it was a busy burying period. Old people at this time of year, with the flu making the rounds, were dropping like flies. “In my apartment building there’s been three gone down these past two months. There’s fewer old folks all the time. My friends are getting to be young. It’s fine to have young friends when you’re young, but when you get old you need some your own age. Like Albert. His spirit inspired us. It’s still with us.” Afterwards, on the street, Rudi and Horst agreed the daughter possessed all the finest qualities Albert used to deploy sparingly: cordiality, politeness, graciousness, restraint.
When a funeral time was fixed, Frau Schwartz called Herr Metzger to confirm he could speak for the Eagles. Rudi immersed himself in preparing an oration. He was on the phone to Horst. Ulf and Dieter called with ideas. A session in the pub was devoted to reviewing the text, but everyone had a different opinion. Some wanted the suffering of the war years emphasized; others that Albert had been an outstanding lawyer; one Eagle insisted there should be a reference to the fact that he had two wives. Rudi protested too much was being added. He was scratching the margins full, his handwriting getting worse as his impatience grew. The sheets were beginning to look like something out of an asylum. Finally he thanked them. “It’s coming together now,” he said. “I know how it should be.”
Several days before the funeral, a printed black-edged card in an envelope was delivered through the bungalow mail slot. On it stood Müller’s name in capitals, the commencement and completion dates of his long life, plus information on the time and location of the memorial service. Hanbury turned the card over. No other signs. He thought about its meaning – a reply to his own note? – and of the process that brought it to him. He checked his schedule to see if he was free.
Frau Carstens desired to see the consul urgently on the morning of the funeral, but he kept his door shut, wanting
no distraction. Even at that late hour he struggled with a question. Was the card an invitation, or would his participation in the service trigger a reaction like at the stadium? A now-or-never moment was chiselled on his watch. When the time came, he yanked the door open with angry determination. Frau Carstens, jarred by the violence, grabbed her reading glasses which threatened to slip off her nose. “An appointment,” he snapped, throwing his coat on, striding past her desk. She pointed at her scheduling book, her mouth frozen into speechlessness. She recovered enough to demand to know where he was going. “A funeral,” he said harshly. Frau Carstens cried that Sturm should drive –especially to a funeral! – but he was gone. She frantically checked her files for a protocol notice about a death, but drew a blank.
The sidewalk in front of the chapel was full of life. A previous funeral was ending. Its mourners were spilling out as the Müller party was waiting to go in. Into these two flocks mixing awkwardly in one spot, Hanbury made a quiet entrance, joining the back of the Müller party filing in. The chapel, a circular pantheon-like construction with a dome, had sitting room for perhaps eighty, but Müller was drawing a good crowd. At least forty mourners were forced to stand. Hanbury sought a spot on the periphery, relieved that the structure with shadows behind a semicircle of interior columns provided anonymity. From there he viewed the coffin. It was embellished by a bouquet of small red roses. Around it lay expansive floral wreaths and around the wreaths stood a colonnade of vases full of flowers.
Hanbury recognized several Eagles from the stadium. Uwe’s son-in-law was there too, shoulder to shoulder with Ilse. The family slipped in through a side door and took seats close to the coffin. Hanbury froze. He studied Sabine. Shuddering with guilt he slunk deeper into the shadows. He saw her son – he had his mother’s anxious eyes – clinging to her arm. Her husband held the other. Hanbury, looking at Sabine and at the coffin, became miserably preoccupied with things living and things dying.
The Berlin Assignment Page 23