by Pierre Frei
It stopped raining. The sun broke through, promising a hot day. He hurried off as if hunted, as if he could escape his own thoughts. But they wouldn't let him go. Even work did not distract him.
When it was dark he took the motorcycle out of its hiding place. Restlessly, he rode through the night, going the same way as usual, but she must have stopped work early today. Women were so unreliable. Disappointed, he put the bike back in the garage.
John Ashburner opened the door when Jutta rang. 'You're early; he said, pleased.
'By popular request Sergeant Varady is cooking a genuine Szegedin goulash, so my culinary skills weren't called for and I was allowed to go.'
He was still in his basketball gear. They had formed an army side and an oMGUS side, and turned the gymnasium of a school in Dahlem into a basketball arena. The captain's height made him a very welcome member of his team.
They hugged and kissed, and for a moment it seemed they might go straight to bed. Then he turned away and poured himself a bourbon.
'What's the matter, John?'
'Nothing. Or rather, nothing but trouble. Colonel Tucker was in my office today, expressing the city commandant's displeasure in no uncertain terms. The general wants us to work more closely with the Germans to make sure more women aren't murdered. The public are getting uneasy. On the other hand, he doesn't want the Military Police to intervene directly in German affairs. So I have to confine myself to an advisory role.'
'My poor darling. You're between a rock and a hard place.'
'You could say that.' Ashburner sipped his whiskey. 'Sorry, would you like one?'
'I'll make myself a coffee.' She plugged the electric kettle in.
And by the way, I've written two letters back home to Venice. One to Tony Mancetti, who wants to sell his pasta bar. With my discharge bonus and a loan from the local bank, I could buy it. The red check tablecloths can stay if you like. The other letter was to Ethel. I've told her I want a divorce. She can keep what we've accumulated these last ten years -- the house, the life insurance, the Ford and so on. What do you think?'
She put her arms around his neck. 'I think you ought to consider all this very carefully. Because you'll never get rid of me again.'
'If you like, I'll find out whether we can get married in Berlin. Then we could ask your family, and a few friends. Klaus Dietrich and his wife, for instance.'
And that good-looking Russian with the white sports car?' she teased him.
'Maxim Petrovich? Why not? What about your parents? You must introduce me to them.'
'Father will be delighted. Mother will burst into tears. Both for the same reason: because I'm going to America. I'll fix a time for us to go and see them next week.'
He pulled her close. 'Will you stay tonight, or shall I drive you home?'
'Would you take me home, please? I have to digest all this.' She picked up her shoulder bag. 'That murderer - will you catch him soon?'
'He's very clever. He could even be taunting us. Inspector Dietrich thinks it was no coincidence that his latest victim was found hanging from the third floor.'
'Who was she?'
'Marlene Kaschke, one of the usherettes at the Uncle Tom cinema. Do you remember - those girls with the funny bows in their hair? She obviously knew her murderer. He was visiting her at her home after curfew.'
'Poor thing,' said Jutta, her voice filled with pity.
MARLENE
FRIDAY WAS PAY day. Lene could tell from the strength of the alcohol on her father's breath whether he'd drunk more than half his wages on the way home. More than half meant she'd have to go and see Herr Pohl at the front of the building. He had a skull shaved bald, he smelled strongly of cologne, and he would watch calmly as the fourteen-year-old undressed. Sometimes he fingered her first, sometimes he sat her straight astride his prick, which luckily wasn't very large. Then Herr Pohl would begin snorting, clutching her tight.
Not that it hurt. Lene got the painful part behind her at the age of eight, the first time she was told, 'You go off to Herr Pohl now and ask him to wait for the rent. And don't make a fuss about it.' No, it didn't hurt now, it was just damp and cold in Herr Pohl's basement apartment, summer and winter alike, and Lene shivered, waiting for the moment when the caretaker would finally be finished and she could get dressed.
And tell your Dad he's got to pay next week, see? Otherwise it's eviction for you lot,' Pohl told the girl as she left.
'Eviction', that dreaded word, loomed over the back yards of Berlin- Moabit like the black smoke from the AEG and Borsig chimneys. For the Kaschkes, father, mother, Marlene and her two little brothers, the bleak picture of a family turned out on the street with their few sticks of furniture and no idea where to go was a familiar sight. Egon Kaschke was on good terms with his foreman at Siemens and had overtime now and then, earning a little extra. That saved them from the worst, usually at the very last moment.
Lene climbed back into the daylight that filtered grudgingly into the four back yards of the five-storey tenement at 17 Ri benstrasse. The yards were evil-smelling playgrounds for rickety children and stout rats. A football goal had been marked out in the second yard, and at the age of six Marlene had dived for balls there like a boy. She kept them out most of the time.
Each yard measured twenty-eight square metres, laid down in the building regulations of 1874 as the minimum size for horse-drawn fire engines to turn. Now, in 1926, the Berlin firefighting service had long since been motorized, and a start had been made on building pleasant housing estates for workers in Britz and Zehlendorf. But these were not available for the likes of the Kaschkes.
Alfred Neubert was leaning against the wall in the passageway between the third and fourth back yards. He wore a suit, collar and tie, which in itself amounted to a challenge to this wretched environment. He nodded to her. 'Hello, Lene, how's things?'
'You back, are you?' It was a long time since she'd seen Fredie, but she recognized him at once, in spite of his stylish moustache. Fredie was nineteen, dark and good-looking, and at the age of thirteen had realized that there was only one way out of Riibenstrasse. He had embarked on his career in the urinals of Alexanderplatz, and continued it in the Tiergarten, where he would go behind the bushes with real gentlemen. The second porter at the Bristol Hotel finally recruited him as a pageboy. The head porter rented out the hotel pageboys to male guests.
A rich Englishman took a fancy to the pretty boy. His mentor travelled the world with him for two years, and then left him for a handsome Moroccan boy in Mogador, abandoning him without a penny. Walking by night and day, Fredie followed the couple to Marrakesh. There he beat up the pederast in cold blood and took his travel funds, all of two hundred pounds sterling. Lord Trevelyan sent to London for more money rather than going to the authorities.
Once back in Berlin, the thief paid his loot, over four thousand Reichsmarks, into a dozen different savings accounts. Besides the money, he had acquired a knowledge of English and French, good manners, and a deep and abiding hatred of men like Lord Trevelyan.
'Just dropped in to see my mother.' Fredie had shaken off the accent of RUbenstrasse and now spoke the Prussian-tinged German of the Berlin upper classes. 'What about you? Still being nice to Pohl?'
'Got anything against it?' Lene spoke in the Berlin working-class dialect that had once been natural to Fredie too.
Against your being such a fool?' Fredie dug his thumb and forefinger into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a silver one-mark coin. To Lene it was a fortune. 'Here, that's your bus fare. Take the bus from Turmstrasse to Kantstrasse. You get out there and turn right. Weimarerstrasse is on the first corner. Turn right into it. Number 28, back of the building, third floor left, name of Wilke. Ring three times and I'll open the door. Got it?'
'I'm not daft.'
'Come on Tuesday afternoon.' She didn't ask what he wanted her to come for, so overwhelmed was she by this invitation into a different world.
She didn't break into the money, although she was
tempted by the thought of riding on the bus for the very first time in her life, preferably on the top deck. Even climbing the spiral stairs to get up there would have been an adventure. But she remained steadfast. She set off on foot at two on Tuesday. She had put on the white lace scarf that Grandmother Mine had left her, the most precious thing she possessed.
She would have walked the long distance faster but for the shop windows, which held displays that were increasingly lavish with every step she went further west. A milliner was showing the most extravagant creations. In RUbenstrasse, such a display would have set off angry protests. Marlene counted thirty different models of ladies' shoes in the window next to the milliner's. She compared them ruefully with her shapeless, oldfashioned button boots. They had belonged to her mother's sister Auntie Rosa, who died of tuberculosis.
She couldn't tear herself away from the display in a butcher's shop. A mountain of ground beef lay on a silver platter, its red appetizingly speckled with white fat, and garnished with onion rings inside which little mounds of plump capers nestled, seasoned with ground pepper and salt crystals. A round loaf of rye bread and a bottle of brown Botzow lager completed this handsome still life. An enticing message in black writing on a celluloid tag stuck into the meat read '30 pfennigs a portion'. Lene tightened her grip firmly around her one-mark coin.
The window of Hefter's contained a lavish platter of sliced meats, surrounded by cans of other delicacies. Next to it, rich and yellow, lay a sphere of butter: you could tell it was freshly made from the pattern left by the butter pats. Lene knew only the unpleasant-smelling margarine brought from the corner shop where thin, blue, skimmed milk dripped from a tap. Her mother gave this milk to her younger son. Her breasts had dried up when she was suckling Lene.
Outside the cinema on one street corner, colourful posters and glossy stills from movies lured customers in. The film now showing was called The Sheikh, starring Rudolph Valentino, who looked unbelievably handsome. Two usherettes were chatting outside the door. Lene gazed in wonder at their red uniforms trimmed with gold braid. She'd like to be an usherette too. You could see the movies for free all the time, she thought.
At four o'clock she turned into Kantstrasse, and then right into Weimarerstrasse at the next corner. Number 28 was a four-storey building with an ornate facade and pot plants in the tall bay windows. The entrance hall was all marble and crystal, the brass of the folding grille over the lift gleamed. The back of the building wasn't so grand, but compared to Number 17 Riibenstrasse it was dreamy.
She rang the doorbell on the third floor beside the nameplate saying 'Wilke' three times. Fredie opened the door. He was wearing a long, silk dressing gown and smoking a Turkish cigarette in an almost equally long holder. 'Oh wow, you're pretty posh these days!' Lene couldn't help exclaiming.
'Come in.' His room was at the very back of the building. 'Here, sit down.' He pushed a chair in her direction. A Black Forest gateau covered with chocolate stood on the table. Whipped cream was piled above the rim of the dish beside it. 'Help yourself.' Fredie poured sweet wine into small glasses. She drank too fast and it went down the wrong way.
He watched with amusement as she devoured huge mouthfuls of gateau and heaped spoonfuls of cream. After the third helping he took her plate away. 'Otherwise you'll be throwing up on me in bed,' he said in a matter-offact tone. You can have more afterwards. Now, get undressed and wash.' There was a washstand in a niche and a longish, curved sort of basin beside it. 'What's that for?' Fredie poured warm water into the basin from a jug. 'That's for underneath you,' he told her. 'But not just yet.'
Five minutes later she climbed into bed with him. It seemed to her a perfectly fair arrangement, after he had given her so much cake and whipped cream, and the promise of more to come. All she ever got from Herr Pohl was a little longer to pay the rent. Fredie pulled the covers off and looked her up and down.
'You're very pretty,' he said, pleased, as his fingers slipped over her skin. A wonderful feeling went through her as the tip of his tongue made the tiny bud of her clitoris burst into flower. Little sighs rose in the air, culminating in a cry of delight.
That afternoon, young as she was, she experienced what most women didn't even venture to dream of. That was nice!' she said breathlessly as she tucked into more Black Forest gateau and whipped cream.
So for the first time in all those years, Lene rebelled when she was told, 'You go off to Herr Pohl now.'
'Go yourself!' she snapped at her mother, and ran down to the yard, where she kicked the garbage bins. Suddenly everything was different. Until now, the squalor had been hidden by the veil of familiarity. Now it showed its ugly, mocking face. She realized that she had to get out of there before it was too late.
When her mother set off for the Welfare Office with the little ones that afternoon, to beg for an extra loaf of bread, Lene tied her few possessions up in a cloth. She stuck the box containing Grandmother Mine's lace scarf under her arm. This time she marched right on without giving the shop windows a glance. She had to get out, that was her only thought.
Fredie took a long time before to open the door. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed. 'What d'you want?' He yawned. 'Well, come on in.' His room was untidy. A half-eaten slice of bread, on a plate smeared with egg yolk, lay on the table.
She looked at him critically. 'Hey, you don't look so good.'
'I went to bed late,' he said, which was far from the truth. He had gone to bed rather early, and the bed in question had belonged to the widow Deister in Neukolln. Fredie now specialized in mature ladies whom he approached in the Resi dance hall, where the pneumatic message service and telephones at the tables made chatting them up easier. The ladies often invited him home and showed their appreciation of his services. The number of his grateful clients was growing. 'Well, what do you want?' he repeated impatiently.
'I ran away.'
He pointed to her bundle. 'Yes, I can see you ran away. Now what?'
'Now I'm going to be an usherette and work in the flicks.'
Fredie went out of the apartment without a word, and came back via the kitchen with a jug of hot water. I told Frau Wilke you're my sister, so you can stay.' He disappeared behind the curtain. Lene heard water splashing and gurgling sounds. He reappeared with his wet hair combed, wiping the last traces of shaving foam from his face. Standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, he put on his collar and carefully arranged his tie. Next came his waistcoat, jacket, and pale felt hat.
'You look really smart now. So?'
'So we're going to get you something to wear yourself.' They took the tram to Tauentzienstrasse, where Fredie withdrew money from one of his savings accounts. In the big Kaufhaus des Westens department store Lene happily tried on a dozen off-the-peg dresses, and chose one with a flowery pattern. Rayon stockings and medium-heeled strap shoes completed the ensemble, although Fredie wouldn't let her put on the fashionable cloche hat until the store hairdresser had set her blonde hair in the latest style and helped with her make-up.
'No one would know you.' said Fredie, satisfied. 'Your parents won't believe their eyes.'
'You're not getting me back there,' she told him.
'You'll hold your tongue and do as I say. I know what's good for you. OK?'
'OK,' she reluctantly conceded.
Egon and Anna Kaschke were speechless when they saw their daughter. Fredie made good use of their astonishment. 'I found Marlene a job as nursemaid with Dr and Frau Schluter. She'll get ten marks wages.' He took a five-mark piece out of his waistcoat pocket and threw it on the table, where it clinked. 'Here's a first instalment. Marlene will give you the same every week because she can't go to see Pohl any more. I'll drop the money in every Friday.'
Lene was bowled over. No one had ever called her Marlene before. She wanted to say something, wanted to promise her mother and father that she'd be sure to come home when she had time off. Fredie urged her, 'Hurry up, girl, your employers are waiting.'
'I thought you were taking me to th
ose people with the kids?' Lene said in surprise when they arrived back in Fredie's room.
'Look, Frau Wilke is asking five marks more a week because you're staying with me. Then there's five for your mother and father, so they won't make any trouble. . .'
'That comes to ten a week. There won't be any left over.'
'You're quick. Listen, darling. There's a man I know, he feels lonesome, he'd love to meet a nice girl. He'd be happy with just an hour, and he says he wouldn't be mean. So I take you to him, you're nice to him, and we're thirty marks better off.'
Lene was no fool. 'You want me to go to bed with some guy I never met before in my life? Not likely!'
'Then put your old clothes on and get out.' He flung them at her. 'You're not so choosy when it comes to Pohl.'
'I'm not a tart!' she defended herself for the last time.
He drew her close. 'Nobody says you are,' he whispered in her ear. 'You're a sweet little thing.' His lips moved down her throat as his hand wandered between her thighs.
She pushed him away in order to take her dress off. 'So it won't get creased.' She was a practical girl.
She cried out with pleasure under his thrusts, and experienced another firework display of heavenly orgasms. Soon she'd be craving it like an addict, but she didn't know that yet. She cuddled up to him as the sensations died away. 'It's lovely with you,' she murmured drowsily.
'You'll help us get that dough, won't you, darling?' he whispered in her ear.
She didn't answer, but moved slightly away from him. Narrowing her eyes, she thought hard for a minute or so. Then she sat up abruptly. 'Right, then. So where's this bloke who's a friend of yours live?'
'Herr Hildebrand - Fraulein Kaschke,' Fredie introduced them at the door, and made himself scarce. Herr Hildebrand was a coal merchant. 'Wholesale,' he liked to emphasize.
His men delivered fuel from the warehouse beneath the arches of the S-Bahn station to the entire west of the capital. The central heating systems of the blocks where the gentry lived in their grand apartments devoured coke by the ton. Hildebrand was forty, neatly dressed, with sparse hair. He hid his shyness behind a stiffly waxed moustache and a punctilious, genteel manner.