The Pathfinder

by Margaret Mayhew

  As a Pathfinder, he had looked down often enough on a blacked-out Berlin – on a blanket of total darkness that had concealed a whole city and its three million or so people until the sudden brilliant flare from the coloured target indicators he’d dropped for the bombers following him. Bomb on the green, bomb on the green. He said, ‘Where did you go during the raids? Was there a shelter here?’

  ‘There is a cellar underneath. We used to go down into it. It seemed safe until one night the bombs hit the building directly.’

  ‘But you got out?’

  ‘Dirk and I did, with Rudi. My mother gave me Rudi and I carried him. The whole street was in flames and we ran down to the river bank to be by the water.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  She looked down at her teacup, tracing the outline of a primrose. ‘She could have got out too, but my grandmother was completely hysterical and she could not make her move. So she stayed with her and they were both suffocated by the fire. Grandfather was found wandering about in the streets, out of his mind. We don’t know exactly what happened with him. He could never remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very sorry.’

  She lifted her head. ‘Your sister and her two sons were killed. By German bombs. Nico told me. I am also very sorry about that.’

  Harrison was silent for a moment, smoking his cigarette. ‘What about your father? Was he with you in the cellar?’

  ‘Oh no. He had died the year before. He had been arrested by the Gestapo. He was put in prison in their headquarters here, interrogated and tortured.’

  The quiet way she said it was more affecting to him than any number of tears or lamentations. ‘Why did they arrest him?’

  She shrugged. ‘They didn’t need an excuse. He did not believe in Naziism and he was not afraid to say so. That was enough. He was a professor at the university, you know, and a social democrat. He would speak out openly against the Führer and the regime and he refused to make the Nazi salute. Of course, he was reported to the Gestapo. At that time people would betray their own brothers. Everybody was afraid for their own skins. That’s how the Nazis ruled, you see – by terror. Everyone was terrified. And everything was in secret. Secret police, secret arrests, secret lists . . . It was horrible.’ She looked away again. ‘There were many people in Berlin like my father, though perhaps you do not believe it. Many people were against Hitler from the very beginning but, in the end, they could not stop him. And most of those who tried were murdered.’

  ‘Did your father die in prison?’

  ‘No. After two months he was taken to Sachsenhausen – a concentration camp close to Berlin. It was a terrible place.’

  He pictured the newsreels he’d seen of camp liberations by the Allies. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘The Nazis sent anyone there who opposed them – not just Jews. Nobody was safe. Nobody. And, you know, the Russians are doing just the same in this sector. The newspapers and the radio are run by the Communist Party, all the officials and the lawyers and the administrators are appointed by the Party, so are the police. Instead of being bullied by Fascists, it is now the Communists. There is not very much difference.’

  It was a truly wretched city, he thought. So little hope. So little chance for the future. ‘What happened to your father?’

  ‘They hanged him.’

  The brutality shocked but it did not surprise him. What could he say to her? Sorry, was useless. He was sorry. She was sorry. To keep repeating it was pointless. He was silent for a moment. He began to understand something of what it must have been like to make a lone stand against the Nazis. ‘Your father must have had great integrity.’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Not everybody was like that. Only the very strong. Only the very brave.’

  And yet, he still held the German people collectively responsible for allowing them to come to power in the first place. He doubted that he would ever be able to change that view.

  ‘After this building was bombed, you and Dirk came back to live here, with Rudi and your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes. Some days later, when the fires had stopped at last. We found that it was still possible to live in these three rooms. We cleaned them and saved everything we could. And we looked for things on bomb sites to use – like the stove. We managed. Until the Russians came.’

  The victorious Red Army storming in to take their grim and grisly revenge. Massacre, torture, rape.

  He nudged the ash carefully off his cigarette into the tin lid on the table. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘We hid. In one of the railway tunnels. We waited there for days until it was safe to come out. Then we came back here again. The soldiers had taken everything they wanted and destroyed almost all the rest so we had to start over again.’

  He knew that she was only telling him a part of the whole story, but he had no right to probe further. On the wireless Bing Crosby had started crooning, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . . He listened to it uncomfortably. The sickly sentimentality of the ballad with its visions of rosy-cheeked children, sleigh bells jingling and happy home-comings had a dreadful irony. The reality of a white Christmas in 1948 Berlin was rather different. And the Christmases that Lili used to know would never come again. ‘I’m surprised the Russians didn’t take your wireless.’

  ‘They would have, but Grandfather carried it with him to the tunnel, under his arm. He refused to be parted from it. He was like a child with a favourite toy. In the war it was a great comfort, you see. He trusted the BBC. He could only understand a few words of the English broadcasts, of course, but he would ask us what they were saying.’

  The old man had trusted the BBC. That was quite a piece of confidence-placing, considering everything. He said quietly, ‘You can trust me, too, Lili. I swear it.’

  Her hand lay beside the English cup and saucer – the cut and callused hand of a trummerfrau. He reached out and lifted it to his lips and then turned it over to kiss the palm as well. He dared not look at her.

  There was a loud noise from the hallway, the crash of the front door slamming, and she snatched her hand away. Dirk stumbled into the room and stood, swaying. He gave a sweeping bow. ‘Guten Abend, gnadige Frau, mein Herr.’ He staggered forward and grinned foolishly at them. ‘Frohe Weihnachten. Happy Christmas.’ Harrison moved fast to catch him as his knees buckled and he passed out.

  ‘Vodka,’ Lili said sadly. ‘Cheap vodka. The Russians drink it like water. Can you help me get him to bed?’

  He carried the youth into the small back room that he had shared with his grandfather and brother and laid him down on the bed. He’d weighed next to nothing – not more than about six or seven stone – and lying unconscious, bereft of his usual cocky bravado, he looked no more than a kid. A very skinny kid, dressed in shabby, too-large clothes, with big holes in the soles of his shoes.

  Lili covered him with a blanket. ‘I’ll look after him now. Thank you.’

  ‘Sure you can manage?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He has done this before. He will sleep now until morning and most of tomorrow.’

  ‘He’ll have a frightful hangover.’

  ‘I know. He won’t care, though. He’ll say it’s worth it for some fun.’

  Harrison had had some bad hangovers in his time and they had seldom seemed worth it, but he could see how a few hours of carefree oblivion on Christmas Eve in post-war Berlin might outweigh a splitting headache. ‘I’d better go, then.’

  She kept her head turned away. ‘Yes, it is very late.’ He collected his cap from the table. ‘Be careful on the streets,’ she told him. ‘The Russians stop people at night. They can be very unpleasant.’ She handed him his torch. ‘I’m sorry this won’t be any use now. Perhaps you can get a new bulb.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She said anxiously, ‘Will that be very difficult?’

  ‘I don’t actually know, but it’s not important.’

  ‘But will you see your way?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’ He hesitat
ed at the front door, wanting to say so much more but afraid to lose the small step he had gained. ‘Do you mind if I come here again?’

  ‘No. If you want to, it’s all right.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Good night, then.’

  ‘Good night.’

  He put on his cap and gloves, walked a few steps across the courtyard, stopped and turned. ‘I almost forgot. Happy Christmas, Lili.’ It was a ridiculous thing to say, of course. Almost an insult. But she answered him softly from the open doorway.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Michael.’

  Without the torch it was hard going. There were few enough street lamps and not all of those were working. There was no moonlight to help him and he had to navigate a path round piles of rubble. Nobody was about. No cars, no people, no sound of anything except for the steady crunch of his feet on the snow and the eerie moan of a bitterly cold wind that had probably come straight from Siberia. He reached the end of the street, passed under the railway arch and turned onto the bridge that crossed the river. On the other side, he made his way down an empty Friedrich Strasse. On other Christmases, in the past, the long street must have been a vista of brightly lit shops and restaurants with jolly models of St Nikolaus and healthy, happy Berliners crowding the pavements.

  He turned onto the Unter den Linden and, as he did so, a figure stepped out of the darkness. ‘Halt!’ A torch clicked on, the bright beam dazzling him. Another torch was switched on and showed him two men in the uniform of the east sector police, both armed with sub-machine guns. More German words were barked out – incomprehensibly. He said in English, ‘I am an officer of the British Royal Air Force. Please let me pass.’ They barred his way. ‘Hände hoch!’ He raised his hands slowly. More German and waving of guns. The meaning was clear and he had no choice. He walked ahead and they followed, prodding him in the back with both the gun muzzles.

  He was taken into the lower floor of a building off the street and put in some kind of small guardroom, the door slammed shut behind him and locked. There was no furniture of any kind and he lit a cigarette and waited, pacing up and down. He went on waiting – over half an hour according to his watch – and, losing patience, started to bang on the door. It was a further twenty minutes or more before, finally, he heard the key being turned in the lock and the door opened. The man who entered the room wore a badly cut civilian suit. He reminded Harrison of the Russian who had been so intransigent at Marienborn – the same stocky build, stubble hair and hard eyes. Harrison decided to deal with him in the same way.

  ‘I strongly protest at this outrageous treatment of a British officer and I demand to be released immediately.’

  ‘That is not possible.’ The accent was Russian, not German.

  ‘What authority do you have for keeping me here?’

  His question was ignored. ‘Your identification papers, please.’

  He took his ID card out of his tunic pocket and the man scrutinized it minutely.

  ‘Why were you in the Russian sector?’

  ‘I fail to see what business that is of yours. There is no restriction on members of the Occupation Forces crossing into any sector of Berlin.’

  ‘Everything that happens in this sector is our business, Squadron Leader. I repeat, why were you here and at this time of night?’

  He spoke far better English than the chap at Marienborn and Harrison realized that he was not going to be quite so easy to handle. Even so, the whole thing was nonsense. The Soviets, he knew, had frequently abducted German civilians from western sectors, but never military personnel. There were no grounds for the Soviet sector police detaining him unless he had been breaking the law. ‘I was visiting German friends.’

  ‘What are their names? ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Their names, please. And the address.’

  ‘I see no reason to tell you.’

  ‘I’m afraid that you must remain here until you give us the information.’ The Russian took a cigarette from a case and lit it. An English cigarette. Harrison had just smoked his last one.

  He said coldly, ‘That’s absurd. You have absolutely no right to keep me here. None whatever.’

  ‘What were you doing in this sector?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. I was visiting friends, that’s all. A social call on Christmas Eve, delivering a gift.’

  ‘What sort of gift?’

  ‘That’s hardly your concern.’

  ‘Black-market goods? It is illegal to bring such merchandise into the Russian sector. There are grave penalties.’

  ‘It was nothing of the kind.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘If you must know,’ he said, exasperated, ‘it was china.’

  ‘China? Porcelain? From Dresden perhaps?’

  ‘Dresden!’ He thought of that city in ashes. ‘Hardly. From England. An ordinary tea set.’

  ‘A tea set? A curious gift.’

  ‘I fail to see why.’

  ‘It was for a woman?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘A prostitute?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Prostitution is not permitted in this sector. It is an offence against the regime.’

  ‘I told you, it was not a prostitute. The gift was for the lady of the house.’

  The Russian stared at him. ‘Unless you can tell me the names of these friends who can corroborate your story, I am unable to release you.’

  ‘That’s completely absurd. Why should I lie about it?’

  ‘Why should you withhold the names?’

  He was not sure why, except to protect Lili and Dirk from any possible harm. Whatever happened, he refused to involve them. The Russians were capable of twisting anything to make trouble if it suited them, he knew that only too well. He was angry now. Angry and tired, and cold; the cell-like room was freezing. He also needed to pee. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m due back on duty at RAF Gatow within a few hours. I suggest we finish this charade now. I have nothing more to say. And I should like my ID back, please.’

  ‘May I see your watch.’

  ‘My watch? What for?’

  ‘It is most unusual. I should like to see it. Give it to me, please.’

  He shrugged and undid the strap to hand it over. The Russian examined it closely. ‘This is German. A pilot’s watch. Very expensive. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I bought it from somebody.’

  ‘Who?’

  He had intended to stick to the truth, if possible, but now he had to lie. ‘A man in the street. A stranger. My own watch was broken and I needed to get another quickly. There are not many watchmakers left in Berlin.’

  ‘It has the Nazi symbol on the back. The Hakenkreuz.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. It probably belonged to a Luftwaffe pilot.’

  ‘You have Nazi sympathies?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Is that likely?’

  ‘Then why do you wear their symbol?’

  ‘It just happens to be on the watch, that’s all. It rather amused me.’

  ‘Amused you? You find the Nazis amusing?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘I don’t find them in the least amusing. But I’m a pilot, so it interested me. That’s what I meant. It also happens to be an extremely good timekeeper.’

  ‘Who sold it to you?’

  ‘I told you. A stranger. A man on the street.’

  ‘What street? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know the name.’

  ‘In which sector?’

  ‘The British sector.’

  ‘What did you pay for it?’

  ‘Some English cigarettes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty, to be precise.’

  ‘You carried all those on you when you met this man in the street? So many?’

  ‘As it happens, yes. In tins. I needed to get a watch. Mine was broken. Cigarettes are common currency in Berlin.’

  ‘So you made
a black-market deal.’

  ‘I prefer to call it an exchange. It’s not exactly unusual. There are official Barter Exchange places everywhere.’

  ‘It is illegal in this sector. We punish black-marketeers.’

  ‘I found this watch in the British sector.’

  ‘I do not believe you. I think that you got it from these friends that you have been visiting – the ones to whom you gave the English tea set. What are their names?’

  ‘I am not prepared to tell you.’

  ‘Then you must remain here until you do.’

  He bit back his fury and forced himself to speak calmly. ‘This is completely unreasonable and you know it. I’m an officer of the British Occupation Forces, due back on urgent duty. I have committed no crime and you have no authority to detain me. I demand to see whoever is in charge of this place.’

  Instead of answering the Russian went to the door and knocked on it. The door had been locked behind him and, again, Harrison heard the key turning as it was unlocked. The same two armed police entered the room and the Russian spoke to them in German. He turned to Harrison.

  ‘These men will search you. Remove your overcoat and jacket, please.’

  It was pointless to refuse. ‘There’s nothing to find.’

  While one of them searched him, the other went through the pockets of his coat and tunic, tossing the contents onto the floor: his cigarette case and lighter, a handkerchief, his fountain pen, coins. A letter from his mother was handed to the Russian, who opened it and read it through. Harrison wondered grimly what he made of the daily round in an English village: the whist drive for the church roof, the Gardeners’ Club outing, the verger’s wife’s sciatica and the Women’s Institute talk on making artificial flowers out of scraps of material. The slim back leather wallet he carried in an inside pocket was gone through – notes and receipts scattered, a small white card handed over to the Russian.