The Pathfinder

by Margaret Mayhew

  There was practically no traffic – a dilapidated tram swaying along on its rails, a British army Bedford, an American staff car, an army jeep, a civilian truck or two and a few people on bikes.

  He had asked the driver to set him down near the Brandenburg Gate. The Reichstag, he knew, was close by – or what the Russians had left of it – and he was curious to see both. The East-West Axis, a long, wide boulevard, ran through the middle of the Tiergarten towards the Gate. The name conjured up a romantic image of charming and peaceful gardens where Berliners could stroll at leisure. The reality was a ravaged expanse of scrub and mud and tree stumps.

  The Brandenburg Gate – backdrop to frenzied Nazi torchlit rallies and Hitler’s triumphant parades – was exactly as he had envisaged: massive and forbidding. It stood just inside the Russian sector and he walked past the sign announcing You are now leaving the British Sector and crossed the white line painted in the road, marking the boundary. The Russians could play silly buggers with the roads and railways across their zone, if they wanted, but there was nothing much they could do to stop movement about the city. The Red Army might have got there first, but the victory and the defeat of Nazi Germany belonged equally to all the Allies. And so, by international agreement, did Berlin. A Russian soldier standing on the other side gave him a curt salute which he answered equally curtly. He spent some time staring up at the Gate and thinking of the newsreels and the newspaper photographs that he had seen. The great stone columns and capital were badly battle-scarred but still awesome and defiant and Victory still rode her four-horse chariot on the top. The old Reichstag, though, a short distance away, was a sorry sight. Burned out, bombed, and pounded remorselessly by shells in the battle for Berlin, the old German parliament building had been left a shambles, the ribs of the great dome where Russian soldiers had raised the Red flag high over a devastated city, a tangle of twisted metal. It was a powerful symbol of savage vengeance. But who could blame the Russians for what they had done to Berlin after what the Germans had done to them? He thought, once again, they asked for it, and they got it.

  He went on through the Gate’s centre archway, where the Führer had passed so triumphantly in his open car, and down the Unter den Linden – another broad boulevard that must have been elegant before it was bombed to bits. There were no longer lime trees to walk beneath and not much left of anything else. The Adlon Hotel, famous for its pre-war sybaritic splendour, had been destroyed.

  He was conscious of his RAF uniform, sensing that it was noted instantly by every civilian that he encountered. They avoided his eye, stepping out of his path – whether from hatred or the deference of the defeated, he couldn’t say. He felt no guilt and certainly no shame at his uniform, but the woman with the sad and careworn face whom he had just passed, for instance, might have every reason to hate him.

  Most of the people looked grey-faced and malnourished and many were dressed virtually in rags. A few of the girls, he noticed, had somehow managed to dress up in hats and spring costumes and high-heeled shoes. One of them smiled at him – a bright-red-lipsticked, inviting smile. Unfairly, he despised her for it. In front of the wreckage of what had been a restaurant, a one-legged man, propped up by a crude wooden crutch, was playing ‘Lili Marlene’ on a harmonica. Harrison found some Reichsmarks in his pocket and put them into the hat on the pavement. The playing paused, the man bowed to him. He wore the shabby remnants of the Wehrmacht uniform and there was a medal ribbon on his chest. Danke, mein Herr. Danke. Harrison strode on grimly. God, it was all pretty depressing.

  At random, he turned into a narrow side street where grass and weeds sprouted up from between broken cobblestones. The lower floors of some buildings had survived intact and a shabby-looking café had a mismatched collection of tables and chairs set outside for customers. As he approached, a man reading a newspaper at one of the tables glanced up.

  ‘Good lord! It’s Harrison, isn’t it? Michael Harrison?’

  He paused. The man seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place him. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t remember . . .’

  ‘We were at school together. Haven’t seen each other for years, of course.’ The chap had stood up and was holding out his hand.

  ‘Nico Kocharian,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was a year below you.’

  He remembered him then. The Armenian boy in his house. Bit of an oily type, rather podgy, hopeless at sport and not exactly popular. He was considerably podgier now, dressed in a foreign-looking civilian suit, a too-loud tie and a narrow-brimmed brown felt hat pulled low over his forehead – a distinctively German-shaped hat with a green feather stuck in the band. There was a definite whiff of some exotic cologne. The newspaper, he noticed, was in German: Der Tagesspiegel. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I remember you well.’

  ‘Once seen, never forgotten, eh? Take a pew and have some coffee. It’s ersatz, of course, but actually not too putrid.’ The schoolboy slang grated. He spoke colloquial English like an Englishman but could never, ever, be taken for one. Harrison sat down reluctantly. The zinc table top was gouged with what looked like shrapnel hits. A waiter was summoned and addressed in fluent German, a gold cigarette case produced, snapped open and offered. ‘They’re Turkish. Jolly hard to come by over here.’

  ‘I’ll stick to Player’s, if you don’t mind.’ He groped for his own.

  ‘No offence taken. These aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.’ Kocharian fitted one of his own cigarettes into an ebony holder – an affectation that a Harrison deplored. A gold lighter appeared, snapped into flame and was held out to him. ‘Cigarettes are currency in Berlin, I expect you’ve discovered that, Mike. You can buy almost anything with cigarettes.’

  The ‘Mike’ grated as well. ‘Yes, I’ve gathered.’

  The Armenian leaned back in his chair. ‘So . . . squadron leader in the Royal Air Force, if I read the rank correctly from those rings on your sleeve. Are you with the Control Commission?’

  ‘No, I’m out at RAF Gatow.’

  ‘Not a bad place, is it? It was the Luftwaffe version of Cranwell, you know.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. What brings you to Berlin, then?’

  A dimpled hand waved – the nails manicured and polished, Harrison noticed with some distaste. An elaborate gold ring shaped like a knuckleduster and set with some kind of red gem glinted on the little finger of Kocharian’s left hand. His own signet ring was plain and simple. ‘A little venture. I’m starting up a publishing business.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather risky? I should have thought the Germans had other things on their minds than buying books, at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, but I intend to specialize in school textbooks, you see. The Nazis wrote their own history books for schools, did you know? You should see them. Swastika and dagger on the cover, Nazi indoctrination throughout. Naturally, the Allies have pulped the lot and new textbooks are much in demand, written from rather a different angle. You follow me? Here’s my card.’

  He glanced at the small white card printed in German, English and French: Phönix Verlag, Phoenix Publishers, Édition Phénix. Somehow the thought of such blatant opportunism rising out of the miserable ashes of post-war Germany offended him even more than the manicured fingers. ‘Very astute of you.’ He tried to give the card back.

  Another wave of the podgy hand. ‘No, keep it. I’ve plenty of them. I have a small office at that address, here in the Russian sector and you can always get in touch with me at that number. I live over the shop, so to speak. Pretty basic, but one’s lucky to have a roof over one’s head in Berlin, let alone a telephone. And it’s jolly convenient.’

  Harrison put the card away in his wallet, intending to chuck it out later. ‘When you say the Allies, I take it you meant the Americans, British and French. What about the Russians?’

  ‘Not really a market there. They have their own version of events. Oddly enough the French are the ones doing most to help education in their sector. The German kids in their schools have twice as many textb
ooks as ours. The Americans are bottom of the class in that respect. Quite surprising.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be better off operating in one of the western sectors?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I rather like this part of Berlin. Actually, I prefer it to the west. Not much left of the old buildings, of course, but there’s still bags of atmosphere. It was a fascinating place before the war, you know. Chock-full of writers and artists and intellectuals. Opera, theatre, cinema, not to mention restaurants, bars, cabarets . . . all that sort of thing. Paris had cornered the market in straight sex so Berlin felt it had to diversify, to put it politely, to attract visitors. You’ve read Isherwood, of course, so you can get the picture.’

  He was curious. ‘You came here before the war?’

  ‘I spent the summer hols here in ’38 – learning a spot of German. Of course, the golden years for Berlin were in the Twenties and early Thirties. By the time I knew it the Nazis were throwing their weight around and the writing was on the wall. Some prophetic chap said that Berlin’s dancing partner would turn out to be Death itself. He got that right on the nail.’

  The waiter arrived with the coffee. It was black as night and bitter but he’d tasted worse. ‘A pity the citizens didn’t listen to him.’

  ‘By the time they realized the prophecy was coming true, it was probably too late. Once he’d got a toehold Hitler was unstoppable. Brilliantly clever chap, in many respects – the way he manipulated the whole thing . . . suspicion, secrecy, terror, all kinds of rumours flying about and those incredible speeches. Absolutely mesmeric. One has to take one’s hat off to him.’

  ‘Does one?’

  ‘I can see you don’t agree, Mike.’

  ‘It’s rather hard to admire his methods, in any form,’ he said coldly. ‘Especially the concentration camps.’

  ‘A great many Germans didn’t know a thing about those, you know.’

  ‘Frankly, I find that difficult to believe. And even if some didn’t, they’re all responsible, in my view.’

  ‘Bit of a harsh judgement.’

  ‘I don’t think so. They allowed Hitler and his henchmen to come to power and they let them stay there.’

  ‘Berlin was actually pretty anti-Nazi. There’s a joke they used to tell: what’s the perfect German? Blond as Hitler, slim as Goering, tall as Goebbels. Rather good, don’t you think? No?’ Nico Kocharian spread his hands deprecatingly. ‘Let’s change the subject. What did you do in the RAF during the war?’

  ‘I was a bomber pilot.’

  ‘That’s a DFC you’re sporting, isn’t it? And that little silver thing in the middle means you got it twice over. A DSO too. What’s the little gilt eagle underneath?’

  He said shortly, ‘The Pathfinder’s badge.’

  ‘They were no slouches, by all accounts. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, Mike. You were always brilliant at everything when we were at school. I was a complete duffer, I’m afraid, except for languages.’

  He’d annoyed everyone by showing off in French classes, Harrison remembered; rattling away pretty much like a Frog. ‘You were rather good at them, I seem to recall.’

  ‘Well, I had a bit of a head start in that department, of course. Armenian father, half-French, half-Russian mother. It helps. I find I can pick them up quite easily.’

  ‘How many do you speak?’

  ‘Armenian, Turkish, Russian, French, German.’ The fat fingers ticked them off. ‘I’ve added a couple more recently: Polish and Hungarian.’

  ‘That’s quite a lot.’

  A shrug. ‘It comes naturally to me. Actually, it was quite handy during the war. I did my bit with the Army Intelligence Corps. They seemed to find me useful.’

  ‘Really?’ Harrison said politely. ‘It must have been interesting. When were you demobbed?’

  ‘Late ’45. I stooged around for a bit, doing the odd bit of interpreting and translating, and then came here early last year. Of course, the place was like hell on earth.’

  ‘It still is, isn’t it?’

  ‘My dear chap, you should have seen it then. The Berliners were literally starving and utterly demoralized. The Americans, sweet innocents that they are, simply couldn’t get it. They’ve never been bombed to smithereens or starved out of existence. Couldn’t understand why they kept finding wretched Germans scrabbling around in the trash cans behind their canteens. The British, at least, do know about being bombed and what it’s like to go without, of course. We can empathize, if not exactly sympathize. Berliners are only just beginning to pick themselves up out of the gutter. They’ve seen a glimmer of hope for the future. What sort of future rather depends, though, in which direction it lies. To the west or to the east. With the western Allies, or with the Soviets. It’ll be interesting to see.’

  Harrison frowned. ‘The city’s governed by all four of the Allies equally. It’s international.’

  ‘In theory, yes. But the British, American and French Occupation Forces are making rather a hash of it, aren’t they? They haven’t a clue how to handle the Russians who are running rings round them, and the Berliners are losing faith. They all think the western Allies will eventually give in and quit Berlin.’

  Harrison said tersely, ‘All think? That’s rather a sweeping statement, surely. There’s plenty of evidence that the western Occupation Forces have no intention of leaving. Why should we? We’ve got every right to be here.’

  ‘Of course. But it may prove to be increasingly difficult to stay. The Russians can pull the plug on access in and out any time they choose, as you must know. The British are always resourceful in a crisis, but there are limits. What could you do if that happens?’

  Harrison repressed a retort. He was not going to discuss what the British would or would not do, at any level. Nico Kocharian might have worked for the Intelligence Corps in the war – if he was telling the truth – but he could be up to anything in Berlin. The city was a hotbed of intrigue. He wasn’t the sort of chap one could trust. Or like.

  The light was fading and he looked at his watch and held it to his ear. The bloody thing had stopped again. ‘Do you have the time?’

  The Armenian was wearing a flashy-looking watch – gold casing with a heavy gold mesh bracelet. ‘It’s nearly eight.’

  He drained his coffee. ‘I ought to get a move on.’

  ‘Having trouble with your watch?’

  ‘It keeps stopping. Damn nuisance. I must get it fixed.’

  ‘Easier said than done in Berlin. The few watchmakers still alive and in business simply don’t have the spare parts. I can find you a good replacement, if you like. As a matter of fact, I can find most things in this city – good food, good booze, good women . . . I know my way around pretty well.’

  He said coolly, ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘The kid I got this watch from is a sort of Berlin version of the Artful Dodger and some of his stuff is first class.’

  ‘Black market, you mean?’

  ‘Well, naturally. Don’t look so disapproving, Mike. That’s the only way to get hold of anything in Berlin. It’s not so terrible. Everybody trades in it, one way or another. This isn’t Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Thanks, but no.’

  ‘In fact, Dirk comes from a perfectly respectable family. Professional middle class, we’d call it. They’ve had to survive somehow. You’ve no idea what it’s been like for them and the rest of the population. You really should meet them and see how these people are living and coping against the odds. I could introduce you to the Leichts. Have you actually met any Berliners? Talked to them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rather a special breed. They are Berliners first, Germans second. Fearfully proud of their city – even in its present sorry state. Always cracking jokes. A bit like the cockney Londoners. As I say, you really ought to get to meet some of them. It might help you to understand them better, Mike, old chap.’

  He looked round for the waiter to pay his bill. ‘I’m afraid I’m not particularly con
cerned about understanding any Germans. And it’s Michael, not Mike. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sorry. Silly of me. Of course it is. And probably Sir Michael one of these fine days when you’re an air marshal, or something exalted, which I’m quite sure you will be. Your father was knighted, wasn’t he? I remember that happening when we were at school. He’s a general.’

  ‘Retired now, actually.’

  ‘And expecting equally illustrious things of you, no doubt. It often runs in families, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. And the RAF is rather different from the army.’

  ‘Same fine military tradition, though. Service to the Crown, and all that. King and Country before everything else. All mapped out since birth.’ Nico Kocharian smiled at him. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t be at all interested in meeting any wretched Huns.’

  It was said without apparent irony, but he knew that he was being mocked for being stuffy and bigoted. ‘Frankly, I don’t see any point, and fraternization is discouraged.’

  ‘That’s rather old hat now.’

  He said stiffly, ‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘A bit of a narrow view, Michael, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  He did mind. Quite a lot. He’d never thought of himself as narrow-minded. In fact, he rather prided himself on having a pretty fair and open mind on most things; on being somewhat different from his father in that respect. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Where is this family then?’

  ‘Only a stone’s throw from here.’

  It proved to be rather more than that – several throws, in fact – and he regretted his capitulation every step of the way. Penetrating deeper into the Russian sector, he saw that it was in even worse shape than the western ones: a squalid wasteland of abandoned ruins and evil-smelling rubble. The cobbled side streets were deserted except for one old woman, bent double, and dragging a homemade cart behind her, full of what looked like filthy rags. He could see no traces of the pre-war vitality that Kocharian had spoken of. The light was going rapidly and the street lamps, few and far between, were still unlit. He wondered uneasily how safe the area was. They crossed a bridge over the River Spree – a narrow stretch of dark and scummy water, choked with rubbish – and as they walked beneath a railway arch one of the city S-Bahn trains thundered overhead. The archway bricks were marked with trails of green slime slithering into pools of water and there was a stink of urine. What a hell of a place to live in, he thought. Mean and drear.