Berlin: A Novel

by Pierre Frei

  He delayed coming up for another couple of seconds, although his lungs were almost bursting. When he couldn't stand it any more he shot up to the surface with two mighty strokes at a diagonal angle, which gave him another metre, and gasped greedily for air. The faces of people on the bank were small, pale specks. He was amazed to realize that he'd swum more than half the width of the lake underwater, at least sixty metres.

  'We thought you were drowned,' said his brother. There was admiration in his voice.

  'It's all in the breathing technique,' Ben told him.

  The couple from the plantation were standing knee-deep in the water. Ben liked the look of the young woman better in her black bathing suit than without it. The man was wearing triangular bathing trunks laced up at the side. He whispered something in her ear. The young woman laughed.

  They went back through the Riemeister Fen to catch tadpoles. 'Hey, look at that!' cried Ralf, pointing to the quaking, grassy island ahead of them.

  An incendiary bomb, covered with moss, lay among the reeds. The marshy bed of this silted-up arm of the waterway had cushioned its impact and prevented it from going off. Two or three years earlier, after a raid on the city centre, a Lancaster bomber had ditched its remaining load over the Grunewald. Most of the bombs had sunk into the fen. This particular specimen had lasted out the rest of the war near the surface.

  Ben pulled their find from the reeds, and carried it from the wobbly island of grass to firm land. The bomb was shaped like a hexagonal stick about six centimetres in diameter and half a metre long. It was made of thermite, as heavy as iron. The upper part had a light aluminium jacket which acted as the control unit. Ben snapped it off. A small, thin lead cross came into view, holding the head of the ignition pin. The cross was supposed to be bent upwards by the force of the impact when the bomb dropped, thus releasing the pin to strike the fuse. It was a simple construction and often failed to work. During the war Ben had quite often let off one of these duds in the sand behind the toboggan run, just to enjoy the firework show.

  Before the admiring eyes of both his spectators, he applied the blade of his penknife to the lead cross and bent all four of its shanks up. Then he struck the device on a stone, holding it vertical. There was a plop. Sparks shot out of the holes around the fuse, hissing. Ben held the bomb aloft like a torch. 'Child's play.' He flung it up and away into the air in a high arc. Hajo ran after it. 'Leave it alone,' warned Ben. But the little boy grabbed the end of the thing, which was now burning with a white flame, and held it up with his arm outstretched. 'Like a sparkler,' he shouted enthusiastically.

  'Throw it away,' cried Ben.

  The detonation came unexpectedly. Hajo's face was suddenly black, and he stared blankly at the place where his hand had just been clutching the burning stick. But there was no stick now, and no hand either. The explosive charge screwed into the improved version of these incendiaries was meant to deter people from throwing them out of the window when they were putting out fires. It had torn the boy's hand off. Hajo collapsed on the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head.

  'Oh, shit.' Ben took the belt out of his trousers. 'We must tie it off or he'll bleed to death.' He applied a tourniquet to the unconscious boy's arm with practised expertise; he'd learnt first aid in the Jungvolk.

  Franke greeted the inspector excitedly when he returned to the office after his lunch break. 'I knew I'd seen her before. Here, look.' The sergeant opened the movie magazine. Klaus Dietrich saw a picture of a beautiful young blonde standing next to a good-looking man. 'Erik de Winter and Verena van Bergen - the new German movie couple,' announced the caption.

  Dietrich was surprised. 'The dead woman from the U-Bahn station.'

  She was quite well known.'

  'Not to me. I didn't often go to the pictures before the war, and I never got to see the shows in the cinemas at the Front. We were usually fifty kilometres further forward.' Dietrich had served with a Panzer unit.

  'First Karin Rembach, now this Helga Lohmann. Both young and pretty,' said Franke, noting the similarities. 'Both blonde with blue eyes. Both killed in the same brutal way ...'

  '... both employed by the Yanks,' continued Klaus Dietrich, and both murdered after curfew. What does that tell us, Franke?'

  'It tells us the murderer is an American, or a German working with the US Army who can be out after curfew. Our witness Kruger suspects a German who drives the Yanks' garbage truck.' Franke told him Gerti's story.

  'Try to find out something about this man Ziesel,' Dietrich said. 'Of course it could also be someone out without permission, killing under cover of the general curfew,' he added.

  CID Assistant Officer Vollmer put his head round the door. 'Lady called Jutta Weber,' he announced.

  The visitor looked pale and exhausted. Klaus Dietrich shook hands with her. 'I'm Inspector Dietrich. You know Herr Franke already. Please sit down, Frau Weber.' He pulled out a chair for his visitor. 'I have a few questions, but it won't take long.'

  'Just a moment,' Franke put in. 'First your name, address, date of birth and marital status.' Jutta gave the information he wanted, while the sergeant attacked the antediluvian Erika typewriter, using the one-fingered hunt and peck method. '133 Onkel-Tom-Strasse,' he repeated. 'You live alone there?'

  'I share the apartment with a family called Konig and a Herr Brandenburg, who used to be in the Luftwaffe.'

  And you found the body last night by the fence of the American enclave at about eleven o'clock, is that right?' Dietrich checked.

  'Yes, I was going to see some friends.'

  After curfew?' Franke looked up suspiciously.

  'I work for the Americans, so I have a pass.'

  'Just like the two murdered women,' the sergeant said.

  Jutta was horrified. 'Two women?'

  'I'm afraid so. You want to be very careful if you're out alone late at night. But don't worry, we'll soon get our man, and you can help us. We've worked out that you must have found the dead woman quite soon after the crime was committed. Did you notice anything? Did you happen to see anyone?'

  'No, I mean, well, yes, there was a man riding a motorbike. He emerged out of nowhere and rode past quite close to me.'

  'Was he wearing a leather cap and protective goggles?' Klaus Dietrich waited eagerly for the answer.

  'I don't know. His headlight dazzled me.'

  'Head-light daz-zled me,' Franke hammered out on the typewriter.

  'Which way was he going?'

  'Towards Onkel Tom. I walked on, and she was just standing there. It was dreadful. Her pale face inside the roll of barbed wire. I didn't recognize her at first. Then I knew who she was.'

  The inspector was surprised. 'You knew the dead woman?'

  Jutta's eyes filled with tears. 'I used to work in Frau Gerold's bookshop in the shopping street. Helga Lohmann was a customer. She came to our lending library for years with her little boy.' She was weeping quietly.

  Klaus Dietrich gave her time. She's as pretty, young, blonde and blueeyed as the two dead women, he thought suddenly. It was an unsettling idea.

  She had become a little calmer. 'Goggles with large lenses?'

  You just said the headlight of the motorbike dazzled you,' Franke objected crossly. Witnesses could be a real pain.

  'No, this was a few days ago when I was going home late from work. A pedestrian. I tried to avoid him and fell off my bicycle. As he bent over me I saw the goggles. Then he disappeared, and next moment I heard a motorbike engine start somewhere quite close.'

  'Can you remember when this was?'

  'Last Wednesday, around eleven o'clock.'

  'Not so fast,' groaned Franke as he struggled with the keys.

  'Please would you read and sign your statement,' the inspector asked their witness. 'We have your address in case there are any more questions. Thank you, Frau Weber. Try not to take it too much to heart.' He showed her out.

  A serial murderer with a motorbike,' said Franke, narrowing the situation down to a comm
on denominator. 'We Germans had to hand in our cars and motorbikes at the beginning of the war. No one has a motor vehicle today, let alone fuel for it. So the murderer can only be a Yank.'

  'Why not one of the French or English occupying forces?' said his boss. 'Or that Dutchman who lives near me? Hendrijk Claasen, big blond fellow. Goes to Nijmegen on his motorbike every two weeks and comes back loaded with black market goods. But he still doesn't have any luck with the women. So my wife says, anyway. Is that suspicious enough for you? On the other hand, how about a Russian coming over to the West on his motorbike by night to commit his crimes here? No, Franke, the murderer isn't necessarily an American. And in any case, who's to say that the murderer and the motor cyclist are one and the same man? What the stationmaster and Frau Weber saw could just as well be a coincidence.'

  'Rather too much of a coincidence for me.' muttered the sergeant.

  All hell broke loose in the Flora bar in Schoneberg that afternoon. A group of off-duty GIs from the Signal Corps had gone in for a beer and were fooling around with the girls. The Flora was regularly patronized by several GIs from the Transport Division who were also off duty, and claimed prior rights to the Frauleins. Unfortunately the Signal Corps men were white and the truck drivers black.

  When the Military Police arrived, the black contingent was clearly winning, a state of affairs that Sergeant Donovan quickly reversed by bringing his stick down on the heads of the Transport Division men. 'Take those damn niggers in,' he told his men when some semblance of peace had been restored. And take in a couple of the whites too.'

  'Particularly that one, sergeant.' said a tall black man. He pointed to a white corporal.

  'Oh yes? Who's giving the orders around here?' Donovan raised his stick menacingly. The black man rolled down his shirtsleeves. He had three chevrons more than Donovan, who let his stick drop.

  'Master Sergeant Roberts,' the black man introduced himself. We were all using our fists except for the corporal there, who pulled a knife. One of us was hurt. Well, what about it, sergeant?'

  Donovan was seething, but he had no choice. 'Your knife, corporal,' he told the white man, and took charge of it. 'You'll come with us. The injured nigger too.'

  The master sergeant kept his temper. 'Black man, coloured man, negro if you like, but we don't care to be called niggers. Particularly by your sort.' Donovan's fist clenched around the grip of his Magnum. Sergeant Roberts, unmoved, put his uniform jacket on. It bore the insignia of the highest war decorations of the US Army. Furious, Donovan got behind the wheel and stepped on the gas. He drove the injured man to the Unter den Eichen military hospital. Fortunately the stab wound was not life-threatening.

  The personnel carrier with the men under arrest was already waiting outside Military Police headquarters. 'Send those fighting cocks back to their units,' said Captain Ashburner. 'Their commanding officers can decide what to do with them. The corporal stays here. We'll hand him over to the provost marshal.'

  The black master sergeant stood to attention and saluted. Your sergeant has requisitioned the knife as evidence, sir. Perhaps you want to put it somewhere safe.'

  'Thank you, master sergeant. Put the knife on my desk, Donovan.'

  Hesitantly, Donovan produced the knife. 'Let the corporal go, sir,' he asked, when they were alone again. 'I'll make sure he gets a suitable amount of leave docked.'

  'The provost marshal will consider whether to lay charges. That will be all, sergeant.'

  'Yessir.' Donovan made it clear that he disapproved of his superior officer's decision.

  'Get us two coffees, Mike, and sit down.'

  'Yes, sir.' Donovan poured two cups of coffee from the Thermos jug.

  'Mike, listen, I've been thinking some more about these murdered women. We still can't dismiss the possibility that an American did it. What do you think?'

  'I think they were only a couple of German whores. You want one of our brave boys to pay for than'

  'Remember what that German inspector said: the war is over, and murder will be punished again, regardless of who committed it, an American or a German.'

  'We had a case in 1944, when we were marching through the Rhineland. One of our boys got a bit too rough with a German girl. Rape and murder, the provost marshal called it. The little tart had opened her legs of her own free will. And you couldn't really blame the GI for putting his hands around her neck in the heat of the moment. Anyway, what we did was, we gave him a minor flesh wound and sent him to the back of the lines as wounded. That gave our colonel time to get him transferred to the Pacific. A practical solution, don't you think, sir?'

  'Can I ask you a question in return, Mike? What would you do if the two murdered women were members of our Women's Army Corps and the murderer was a German?'

  'Shoot the bastard,' replied Donovan in surprise.

  The radio-telephone came on. 'Patrol Three, Miller. We picked up a Russki in Block Eighteen. Claims he's looking for a man called K less, something like that. Me and Joe think it's a funny sort of story, captain. What do we do with the guy?'

  Absolutely nothing, Miller, if you want to observe the agreement between the four powers.' Ashburner went off in the jeep. Problems with their Soviet allies were the last thing he needed. The patrol car was standing on the Wannsee bridge, barring the way of an open, white BMW two-seater sports car against which the tall, lean figure of a Russian officer was lounging. He had taken off his cap, revealing wiry fair hair, he was smoking a cigarette with a long cardboard tip, and looking with amusement at Corporal Miller and the driver, Joe, who were waiting a little way off, hands hovering close to their pistol holsters.

  Ashburner introduced himself formally. 'Captain Ashburner. United States Army Military Police.'

  'Major Berkov, staff officer with City Commandant General Bersarin. Extremely pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Ashburner.' The Russian spoke an elegant British English that made Ashburner's American accent seem unsophisticated.

  The captain quickly ran over all relevant agreements and orders in his mind. They stipulated that members of the armed forces of the four Allies in Berlin had free access at any time to the other Allies' sectors of occupation. so long as they were wearing uniform. '1 hope my men have treated you correctly, Major Berkov. You're looking for a man called Kless?'

  'Not Kless, Kleist. I don't think your men entirely understoond me. He committed suicide somewhere in the vicinity, and I'm looking for his grave.'

  A suicide by the name of Kleist. That would be a case for the German police. I'll radio my duty officer and tell him to get in touch with the Germans at once. They can send someone to help you search. Did you know him?'

  'Know whom?' Berkov did not understand at first, then it slowly dawned on him. 'Heinrich von Kleist? Oh, no. He and his mistress Henriette Vogel committed suicide here on the banks of the Kleiner Wannsee in November 1811. A German poet from an old aristocratic Prussian family.'

  'Well, you certainly caught me out there, major.' murmured Ashburner, with some embarrassment.

  'Nonsense, captain. I happen to know about it quite by chance, because I've studied a little German literature,' said Berkov apologetically. Ashburner beckoned to an old man, who showed them the steps leading down to the river bank. 'I'm particularly fond of his plays The Broken Jug and The Prince of Homburg,' said Berkov, taking some photos of the monument.

  'Fabulous car.' Ashburner pointed to the BMW when they were back up in the street again.

  'I found it on a country estate, hidden under bales of straw. I'm planning to take it home with me - the spoils of war. Privilege of the victor. Would you like to try it, captain?' The major invitingly opened the low-slung car door.

  'That's an offer I can't refuse. Corporal Miller, carry on with your patrol. Joe can drive my jeep back to the station.' Ashburner got in. He indicated a small gold plaque with the letters M.G. on the dashboard. 'Initials of the previous owner?'

  'Very possibly.' Berkov turned the sports car and stepped on the gas
. Ashburner enjoyed the acceleration. They had both taken their caps off to let the warm air waft around their heads. They glanced at one another and found themselves laughing like little boys. It was a beautiful, late-summer's day. The houses in the western suburbs were hardly damaged at all, and children were playing in the front gardens. Only a few boarded-up windows and traces left by shrapnel on the carriageway were reminders of the war.

  'Must have been a good life here once,' said Ashburner.

  'Give the Nemzis a few years and they'll be doing better than ever,' Berkov called back.

  The picture changed the further they drove into the city. Rubble and ruins lined the streets. People were clearing up everywhere. Chalk and brick dust hung in the air, and the people seemed more depressed and tired than beyond the city centre.

  The Russian stopped on a corner. 'My name's Maxim Petrovich. What's yours?'

  'John.'

  All right. John, where can I take you?'

  'To Uncle Tom. I'll show you the way. I'd like to invite you for a drink, Maxim Petrovich, but I have a date. Another time, maybe?'

  'I'd like that.' The major turned, and drove Ashburner back to Uncle Tom at breakneck speed. Jutta was already waiting at the entrance to the prohibited zone. 'What a pretty woman. Congratulations, John,' said Berkov, smiling. Ashburner got out, and his new friend raced away.

  Jutta came to meet him. 'Hello, John. Why did you send that dishy man away? He could be dangerous even without a sports car.' She enjoyed teasing him a little.