The train, shuddering as brakes release, creaks into motion. On board with the consul is a motley crowd: some winos, a few students, a sprinkling of pensioners out for an afternoon of Western shopping. As always, the consul sits at the end of the carriage on a bench with his back to the direction of motion. It enhances the element of surprise.
No sooner have the doors slammed shut than a beggar speaks. My name is Jochen. Three years ago I was infected with HIV and was laid off. Without a job I lost my apartment. Without an apartment I can’t get a job. My disease is coming out of dormancy. I need drugs. The Sozialamt’s pfennigs don’t pay for what’s needed. A small contribution for my condition would be helpful and I would be thankful too. Jochen does indeed look as if he’s ravaged by an early form of AIDS. Or is it make-up? He collects his pfennigs – mostly from the students because the Eastern pensioners are shivering in their seats. It has to be said – Jochen at this point is only warming up. The lucrative S-Bahn stretches are in Charlottenburg, Grunewald, the Westend. There his voice will have tremors of drama. The consul knows Jochen by now. He knows each word in Jochen’s speech. Their S-Bahn paths cross every week.
First stop, Hackescher Markt. Jochen gets off to rehearse in another carriage. The expanse of socialist heaven at Alexanderplatz has transformed into narrow streets with crumbling buildings. Everything is in scaffolding; everything has to be propped up. Too few travellers know that nearby, in Rosenthaler Strasse, the central committee of the Communist party was headquartered in the twenties. More old politics in the opposite direction, the improvised SS detention centre on Rosenstrasse. In ’43, 5000 Jewish men (with Aryan wives) were locked up here awaiting a decision to send them to the concentration camps. Their enraged spouses, devoted Berlin women, began demonstrating outside. What could the SS do to racially pure German women except yield? Destination Auschwitz cancelled for the husbands.
The next stretch of track borders a park named after an eighteenth century palace, Monbijou. When it stood, it really was a jewel, but the Communists blew it up after the war. They didn’t like the fact that the aristocracy used to dance there. Beyond the trees is the golden dome of the restored Synagogue, rising over its surroundings like a beacon. The S-Bahn would have to come to a stop for several hours to allow its story to be told, even if restricted only to Kristallnacht.
Communists. Fascists. Scenes of rampage and destruction. The S-Bahn weaves its way through history.
It crosses the river onto the island. The benefit of sitting with your back to the direction of motion now becomes apparent. The island is dotted with museums and the elevated S-Bahn pursues a narrow course between them. Were the track displaced a mere few metres to the south, the train would be creeping through the Pergamon itself, through the lovely, multi-storied temple altar from Asia Minor and the lovely friezes of gods fighting giants. Enlightenment struggling with tyranny in the centre of Berlin. As the train rumbles off Museum Island the beauty of classical antiquity recedes.
The traveller arrives in Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse, a Cold War border crossing, a place for interrogations and detention and now a cold dose of contemporary Berlin. Fifty years of soot, physically and symbolically, cling to the roof. Outside, skinheads, punks and drunks in full regalia hang around as if in permanent detention, while all around the nimble North Vietnamese peddle smuggled cigarettes.
The train moves on into a landscape with all the charm and colour of the moon. Square, brown-black elevations totter on the edge of ruin like rocks on rims of lunar craters. An earthliness returns, however, as the track begins to parallel the north bank of the Spree. Squatting opposite is the Reichstag. The Wall ran into the river here and continued on the opposite side. At first, Easterners tried to swim out through the watery opening. Good shooting practice for Communist border patrols: a decent distance, a target that moves, though not too fast. On the south bank by the Reichstag the West kept score. Dozens of white crosses sprouted up.
A barren emptiness that was once a thriving neighbourhood persists from the Reichstag to Lehrter Bahnhof. What’s Lehrter Bahnhof? It’s a little local station which sits there like a pauper. But it has a princely future. When the Tiergarten Tunnel is finished, the heap of bricks will be transformed into a shiny European crossroads. Maybe into the greatest railway station in the world. By then today’s rheumatic trains may be extinct. The tracks curve south, past Schloss Bellevue. The flag flaps on the roof: the President is in. Quick views of Golden Ilse high up on her column with her spread wings angelically protecting Sturm’s ghosts in the park below. She may be praying. May they never again experience carpet bombing and be allowed to haunt this arboreal peace forever, amen. Finally, brakes squealing, asbestos smelling, S5 pulls into Bahnhof Zoo. Another trans-epochal journey successfully completed. Loudspeakers scream out information on connecting trains. One announcement is prominently missing:Keep your hands on your wallets! Con artists enjoy the freedom of the city in this place. It’s true. The police have given up on the many pickpockets and bag-snatchers in Bahnhof Zoo. Having flooded in from eastern Europe, they face no restrictions. And since Western police precincts inherited Trabis from the East’s Volkspolizei and Western officers now drive around in tinny little cars, the thieves in BMWs outrun them easily. Cops and robbers Berlin style.
Dapper police Trabis with hectic little engines bravely racing around Bahnhof Zoo always made Hanbury think of Gundula pushing hers to the limit. She had a new bumper sticker:My other car is a Rolls Royce. Sturm once told the consul a Trabi joke based on the text of the German constitution:The dignity of a Trabi is inviolable. He tried it out on her. They were bouncing along a cobblestoned East Berlin street after an evening of cabaret. Gundula loved it. She shot right back:And all Trabis are created equal. Gundula knew about constitutions. She was also up on the latest Trabi jokes. Every Trabi has the right to exist in top condition, Sturm had quoted and Hanbury repeated it to Gundula. To respect, protect and maintain Trabis is the highest duty of the state, she glibly replied. Never mind a Charter of Rights for Trabis. These days Gundula’s Trabi had one sole purpose: putting in long hours late at night going back and forth between Dahlem and Marzahn. “He sounds happy,” the consul often said. “I hope he’ll hang in.” “I don’t see an alternative,” she remarked.
If Gundula didn’t see one, Hanbury didn’t want one. Sabine by day; Gundula by night. Part of the weekly routine. Gundula would wait a discreet distance from the diplomatic functions. When the consul came out whistling with freedom it was off to her part of town, her pubs and off-beat galleries and halls of cabaret. Fifty years of prohibition on freedom was over and the East was jumping with the kinetic energy of a spring. She, child of the latest German revolution, owned this scene. She was the celebrity here and the consul the after-thought, the tag-along.
Very late, another long haul for Trabi, back to the Greco-Roman villa in Dahlem. Inside, music might emerge from the grand piano. Then the chandeliers dim, the action moving up a floor. Somewhere near day break more commotion as Gundula departs, rousing Trabi, humming happily to herself the whole way back to Marzahn.
A closer look at the congenial hours in the mansion.
Arriving from their midnight dinner, Gundula and the consul proceed to the cosy confines of the music room. Teasingly she gets him to sit at the huge piano. Reluctantly he puts a finger to the keyboard. Pieces of music follow, an étude, a polonaise, a slavonic dance or two. Once he gets going, he keeps going, closing his eyes, swaying with the music. Concentration is written on the furrows of his brow. Sometimes his upper body rises – or collapses – depending on the passage he’s playing. Gundula in an armchair is concentrating too. He’s giving; she’s receiving. They are physically apart, but the music is a bond.
One evening Tony was playing a longer piece. Gundula rose from the chair and walked to the window where she stood in a thoughtful pose, one arm across her body under her breasts, the palm supporting the elbow of the other. With the free hand she sensually stroked her neck. Her
body rocked a little. Hanbury opened his eyes as he ascended with the music and looked at Gundula. At the moment of eye contact his face transformed. She saw it fill with horror. Abruptly he ceased playing, jumped to his feet – so fast the piano stool went flying – and slammed the keyboard lid down. Two giant strides and he had left the room. “What’s happening?” she called after him.
Gundula righted the stool and caught up with him in the kitchen where he was undoing a whiskey bottle. He poured himself a shot and emptied it. Perspiration trickled down his temples. She asked if he was all right.
“Oh yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I shouldn’t play. Really, I shouldn’t.”
“Why? You played last week and the week before. Why a heart attack today?”
Hanbury wiped his forehead with a dishtowel. “No heart attack.”
“You’re dripping with sweat.”
“I’m fine,” said Tony. “Never been in better shape. I’ll prove it. Race you to the bedroom. Last one to have an orgasm is a rotten egg.” He broke into a crooked grin.
Gundula insisted on an explanation. When Hanbury shrugged as if there was nothing more to say, her eyes flashed with anger. “We’ve been sleeping together for two months. Don’t I have the right to know what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me. Everything’s fine. Let’s go upstairs.”
Gundula took a glass, snapped it onto the counter, poured herself some rye and drank it in one go. “Your turn,” she said thrusting the bottle back. Hanbury didn’t move. “We’ll take turns,” she said, still white hot, “until one of us pours his heart out. I predict it won’t be me.” She tipped the bottle over his glass until it held three fingers of undiluted liquor. “You’re next.” A hollow look developed around Hanbury’s eyes. He emptied it with two hard gulps. Gundula poured once more for herself.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “We’ll get sick. I didn’t feel like playing anymore.”
Gundula knocked back her glass in one smooth motion and refilled his. “I want to know.” She thrust a third whiskey tumbler at him.
“You reminded me of my mother,” he said. A sudden admission.
“I don’t believe you. You jumped up like you saw a ghost.”
“I thought I had.”
“I don’t believe you. Drink,” she ordered.
Hanbury took the bottle and the glasses. He said, “Let’s go up. I’ll tell you there.”
The tumblers on the night table remained untouched. At first there was very little talking. Gundula lay astride Tony. Under the covers he ran his hand along her back. “I can’t believe I remind you of your mother,” she said.
“You don’t,” he said in a whisper. “Of course you don’t. For a moment only, the way you stood at the window touching your face. She used to stand like that. I spent years practising with her in that pose. She was making mental notes. Afterwards she explained how I should improve.”
Gundula laid her fingertips against the side of Tony’s head. “Mothers teach their children,” she said. “No need to get jumpy about it forty years later.”
“She went mad. She wasted away. I shouldn’t play. I really shouldn’t.”
“Why did she go mad?” whispered Gundula.
“The doctor said she had an illness.”
“I hope, Chopin, that when you play now you’re playing for me, not her.” Gundula shifted her weight. Her hand slipped from his temple and continued a journey down. “An interesting idea you had in the kitchen, having a race.”
“I love competition,” he said into her ear.
“Ready for the starting signal?”
“Don’t forget the condom,” cautioned Tony.
“Damn the condom,” replied Gundula, emboldened by the whiskey.
The hours the consul spent with his day- and night-time women were blanks on the official program and Frau Carstens viewed them with suspicion. She tried tenaciously to fill them, but an equally determined Hanbury resisted. She pondered this. Was he attending secret functions? Were important contacts being allowed to slip away?
Actually, in those easy, happy downhill months Hanbury kept much of what he did to himself. Such as the long-promised dinner on Fasanenstrasse. Being a casual affair, informally staged, it would in any case have been unsuitable for inclusion in a diplomatic program. It seemed to be an innocent enough evening. Only later, when deciphering numerous inter-connected strands, did Hanbury realize it too contributed to the unceremonious ending of his Berlin career.
It was a dinner without five courses. The food was put out in advance. Neither host nor hostess got up to serve. Baskets of bread and bowls of salads stood down the middle of a table. Surrounding them were plates of cheeses, hams, salamis, smoked fish and patés. The guests took and ate and took some more. The drink was beer. Sabine and her husband had each invited two friends plus consorts. Hanbury came at the invitation of both and was seated in the middle, halfway between the host and hostess at the ends. Schwartz’s friends – two professors with earnest wives – were on the consul’s right, Sabine’s on his left. One was Martina, still going out with Professor Kraft, the other Lisa who had dragged her husband with her. All evening long, when Hanbury looked up, he was confronted by a knowing smile from Martina. If he turned his head right Schwartz winked encouragement at him, and when his gaze wandered left, he saw a radiant Sabine listening carefully to the learned anecdotes of Kraft. Confronted with so much friendship and good will, Hanbury drank quietly.
Lisa’s husband Ulrich, a mathematics teacher, was drinking faster than the others. Stray locks of thick hair fell over heavy glasses and a walrus moustache got wiped dry each time he quaffed. Lisa watched him like a hawk. Initially Ulrich looked glum, but slowly he came forward on his chair, as if the beer was helping him out of a chrysalis. Eventually he was leaning forward on the table and mumbled something which made Kraft giggle.
“What did he say?” Lisa asked Sabine.
“I don’t know. It was in Latin.”
“He only knows two Latin words,” Lisa scowled. “Pi and Theta.” A resigned Ulrich shook his black-maned head. “That’s Greek,” he said sadly to his wife.
“Ut multus e visceribus sanguis exeat,” Kraft spouted effortlessly. “Ciceros’s Disputations. We were talking about East Berliners.”
“What about them?” demanded Lisa.
“From the flesh much blood pours forth,” translated Kraft.
Lisa thought about this. Ulrich continued the hushed exchange with Kraft. “I don’t think that’s suitable for East Berliners,” said Lisa. “That’s West Berliners. We’re the ones bleeding.” Suddenly there was a yelp from Ulrich. He raised a bottle. “To mistresses,” he shouted. He had just learned that Martina and Professor Kraft were unmarried. The academic end of the table fell silent. All eyes were on Ulrich who tipped the bottle so that beer flowed freely down his throat. “And to the men that love them,” Martina added warmly. She lifted her glass too. Ulrich turned to her. “Madam, you deserve to be kissed.” The edges of his words were becoming slightly indistinct. “Ulli,” Lisa threatened. “You don’t have one?” Kraft asked, egging Ulrich on. “Of course,” Ulrich continued, his pouchy black eyes more resigned than ever. “Berlin is my mistress. She’s not beautiful, but she is intense.” “Stop it, Ulli,” Lisa said. “She is inspiring,” Ulli continued, now viewing his wife. “And she’s always there.”
The other end of the table had been shifting in their seats. Something Ulrich said touched one of the professors. He admitted he didn’t know much about it – he could only make assumptions about what it was like to have a mistress – but if they were moody and fickle and different every day, he would have to agree with Ulrich’s vision of Berlin. “Right now, though, she’s getting her plumbing readjusted,” he added, smirking.
“A temporary stay in the intensive care unit only,”proclaimed Ulrich with authority. “When she’s out, she’ll be more licentious than ever.” Here and ther
e a titter could be heard around the table.
Martina, with eyes not quite synchronized, asked Hanbury a direct question. “Do you agree with that, Herr Konsul?” Attention around the table shifted to the consul as if a piece of exotica had been discovered.
“What fascinates me is to see the two halves coming together,” he said blandly.
“Exactly!” said Ulrich with triumph. “Berlin is coupling.” He held his bottle towards the consul in salute.
Professor Kraft was quick to pick up. “And what fascinates me,” he said, once again giggling, “is that it’s impossible to know which side is getting screwed.” Ulrich began to shake and Sabine, her husband and even the two professors’ wives were now laughing. Only Lisa remained stern.
One of Schwartz’s professor friends said he’d heard a joke about the East-West cleft. “Tell us,” commanded Ulrich.
“An Ossi and a Wessi meet under the Brandenburg Gate right after reunification. The Wall is gone. They look past each other into the other part of the city. The Ossi says:Isn’t it wonderful? We’re one People again. The Wessi replies:I’m so happy for you. That’s what we are too.” Kraft loved it and Ulrich clapped before he grabbed another beer. “You’ve had enough, Ulli,” said Lisa. “It’s good beer,” he told her. Kraft said, “We had some good stories in East Germany, but telling them was a crime.” “Tell the one about God, Helmut,” Martina prompted. “I’m not good at it,” Kraft protested. But Schwartz from the far end demanded to know about God and the GDR.
Kraft relented. He described a scene where the heads of state of the USA, the USSR and the GDR – Reagan, Gorbachev and Honecker – were having a summit with God. Each asked God about his country’s prospects for the next millennium. “Ah, yes,” said God, “early in the next millennium the USA will become socialist.” Reagan, dumbstruck, turned around, covered his face with his hands and cried. “And what will happen to the Soviet Union?” Gorbachev wanted to know. God sighed. “It won’t exist anymore.” Gorbachev’s head sank, also unable to keep his tears from flowing. Now it was Honecker’s turn. He asked what was in store for the GDR. God was silent for a moment, then turned away and wept.
The Berlin Assignment Page 42