by James Remmer
‘Forgive the presumption, Carl,’ she said, ‘but we’ve put a few things together for Sigi.’
Now it was von Menen’s turn to feel emotional. ‘Thanks, Greta, it’s very thoughtful of you. And thank Mother, too, will you, please?’
She reached up, flung her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. ‘Take care, now. We’ll be thinking about you.’
‘I’ll be thinking about you, too, Greta.’
With that, she kissed him on the forehead and disappeared into the darkness, taking her tears with her.
Von Menen turned to face Steiger. No playful punches, no jokes, no words of advice, just a solid, warm embrace.
‘Don’t concern yourself about things at this end,’ Steiger assured him. ‘Everyone will be fine.’
‘Thanks, Hans, thanks for everything.’
‘Here,’ said Steiger, delving into his pocket, ‘I’d like you to have this.’ He handed von Menen a small, jagged piece of metal, about an inch square, worn and shiny from its lasting home in his jacket pocket. ‘It’s one of two pieces a surgeon took from your father’s leg in 1916,’ he explained. ‘Your father gave them to me as a keep-sake. I’ve kept them ever since. They’ve brought us a great deal of luck. Maybe this one will do the same for you.’
‘Thanks, Hans, I’ll take great care of it.’
Von Menen turned to Lanze, placed his hands on his shoulders and gave him a slight tug.
‘Jürgen, I didn’t say so last night, because I didn’t want to alarm Katrina, but the fact is, I know you have the most dangerous task of all. While I have only myself to worry about, you have the burden of looking after over fifty men. Take care. I’ll be praying for you.’
They hugged, parted and von Menen made for the door.
‘One last thing,’ said Steiger, his voice signalling a playful tone. ‘When you get to Berlin, just remember… there’s another lady waiting for you in Buenos Aires!’
Von Menen smiled, climbed into the Delahaye and drove through the archway, conscious of the waves from the upstairs windows of the house.
*
Von Menen was out of luck. Johann Ritter, face etched with exhaustion and apology, had no room available at the Savoy. Instead, von Menen accepted a cup of coffee, then headed off in the direction of Alexander Platz.
It had just turned noon when he passed by the burned-out hulk of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church on Kurfürstendamm, a symbol of the perpetual nightmare facing the city’s hard-pressed emergency relief services. Berlin was still ‘breathing’, but only just.
In Germany, Sunday was no longer a day of rest and Sigi was still at work, but Frau Bredow was graciously welcoming, if not slightly flummoxed.
Placing the two boxes on the floor by the sideboard, von Menen noted the small suitcase standing by the door.
‘My apologies, Frau Bredow,’ he said, glancing at the brown leather case, ‘perhaps I’ve called at an inconvenient time?’
‘Not at all, Carl, do sit down. I’m only going to Potsdam for the night. It’s my sister’s sixtieth birthday.’
‘Then maybe I could give you a lift,’ replied von Menen, already halfway to his feet.
‘That’s awfully kind of you, Carl, but my brother-in-law is collecting me at three-thirty.’ She picked up her handbag from the sideboard and fastened the clasp. ‘Staying in Berlin long?’ she asked.
‘Just briefly. I thought I’d call in and see Sigi. I promised her I would when I saw her before Christmas.’
‘Yes, she told me. I was sorry to have missed you when you called, but I was still at the Charité Hospital at the time. I do voluntary work there, sometimes until the early hours.’
‘So Sigi mentioned.’
She glided into the bedroom, the conversation continuing through the open door. ‘She was very excited to see you… Didn’t stop talking about it for days. You cheered her up no end.’
Frau Bredow returned to the drawing room, closing the bedroom door behind her.
‘That damned wretched Gestapo… call themselves men. They’re nothing but a bunch of cowards. Sigi’s got a much better job at Borsigwalde now, in the office, better hours and more money. She’s much happier; well, as happy as one can be in these awful times.’
The news brought an innocent smile to von Menen’s face.
‘Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have been working today, but she offered to do some paperwork. Her reward is a little extra money and a day off tomorrow.’
‘I’m happy for her,’ said Carl. ‘I don’t suppose she’s had any news of…’
‘Lutzi?’
He nodded.
‘Afraid not. As far as we know, she’s still at Flossenbürg, waiting to go before that appalling People’s Court.’
Picturing the consequences, von Menen tried to shake the thought from his mind. Glancing at the two boxes he’d brought down from Mecklenburg, he drew himself to his feet.
‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘My family would hate you to think they were being patronising, but they asked me to bring down a few things for you and Sigi. They’re mainly homemade,’ he added: ‘preserves, cakes; some cheese and butter, that kind of thing. There are a few cans of meat in there, too.’
Frau Bredow moved over to the sideboard and peered inside one of the boxes. Three years ago, it would hardly have been big enough to accommodate her jewellery, most of which had pedalled its way through the greasy hands of Berlin’s black-market racketeers in exchange for warmth, food and the occasional luxury of perfumed soap.
‘How very kind of your mother,’ she said, clearly overwhelmed. ‘Do give her our sincere thanks, Carl. Perhaps when this damn awful war is over, I’ll be able to repay her in some way; that is, if we ever get our money back.’
‘She wouldn’t hear of it. She knows how difficult life is for those living in the cities.’ He glanced nervously at his watch, sighed and said, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be on my way.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Er…’
‘You haven’t got a room, have you?’ she said perceptively.
‘Well, not yet, but I’m sure I’ll find somewhere.’
‘Not yet, not ever, I think,’ she said convincingly. ‘You can stay here, if you like. It’s not much, but you’re more than welcome. I’ll leave a note for Sigi. She can make up a bed for you on the settee.’
Frau Bredow went off in search of a pencil and paper.
‘There’s a small piece of ham and a few potatoes in the larder,’ she called out from the hall. ‘Sigi’s quite adept at making things go a long way these days.’
Steiger’s decorous advice went flashing through his mind.
‘Now, where was I?’ she said, reappearing. ‘Oh, yes… Sigi finishes much earlier these days. The bus drops her at Oranienburger Strasse at five o’clock. Why don’t you surprise her? She’s still very fond of you, you know… Thinks you’re such a gentleman.’ There was a certain look in her eyes; the word “gentleman” and her subtle glance at the settee a trifle off-putting. ‘If you leave here at, say, four-forty, you’ll be there in plenty of time.’
Von Menen pulled up as the bus came to a halt, tooted on the horn and leapt out to open the door. A gleeful Sigi, bubbling with delight, climbed in.
‘This is a surprise,’ she said, undoing her headscarf. She shook her head, running her fingers aimlessly through her hair.
‘A nice one, I hope,’ he smiled.
‘Of course, but how did you know—?’
‘I just guessed you’d be here around this time,’ he said, cutting her short.
She chatted incessantly and when the car came to a halt outside her apartment, she asked, ‘How long are you staying in Berlin?’
‘Just the one night.’
‘The Savoy?’
He conveniently escaped the question, climbed out of the car and opened the passenger door.
‘Mummy’s not at home at the moment, but you’re welcome to come in for a while, stay to dinner, if you like,’ her tone implying nothing more than politeness and civility.
‘I’d love to.’
They went inside, Sigi returning quickly to her earlier question. ‘So, where are you staying, at the Savoy?’
‘Sigi, I have a confession to make,’ he said sheepishly. He pointed towards the boxes lying beside the sideboard then gestured to her mother’s note waiting on the table. ‘I was here earlier,’ he revealed.
She read the note, a surprised look on her face. ‘Oh,’ she said.
Von Menen felt the awkwardness of the moment. ‘If it’s not convenient, Sigi, I’m sure I could find a hotel somewhere. I only came here expecting to stay for a few hours. It was your mother who suggested that…’
She caught the flustered look on his face, walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Of course you can stay. If it’s okay with Mummy, then it’s okay with me. Now, about dinner, just give me a moment and I’ll get things started.’
Von Menen moved over to the cardboard boxes. ‘Will this help?’ he asked, pulling out a bottle of champagne.
She smiled, the memories racing back. ‘Mm, wonderful, haven’t had champagne in ages.’
Von Menen opened the window and placed the bottle on the stone ledge. ‘There are a few other things in there, too,’ he called, as she busied herself in the kitchen.
‘Such as?’
‘Come and see for yourself.’
Sigi returned to the drawing room, dipped into the open box and pulled out a small bottle of Je Reviens Worth perfume.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t get you any Chanel No 5,’ he said.
‘Ah, but this is wonderful, Carl. Soap as well, toothpaste and three pairs of stockings – my colour, too.’ She held them up to the lightshade, her sudden, half-bewildered look taking him by surprise. ‘You’re not dabbling in the black market, are you?’
‘Me! Goodness, no. They’re just a few presents from my family in Mecklenburg. They sent down some food, too. It’s in the other box.’
‘Well, it’s very sweet of them and it’s very sweet of you, too, Carl.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Then, as if overwhelmed by her good fortune, she whispered in his ear, ‘And thank you for everything else. I know it was you who fixed the job for me at Borsigwalde. I’ll never forget it. I was very down and you gave me a reason to go on.’
He squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘It was nothing, Sigi, just a word in the right ear.’
Sigi busied herself in the kitchen, the conversation flowing through the open door. Eventually, she came out, peeked excitedly into the second cardboard box and kissed him again, warm and gentle, not lingering, but long enough for him to sense the softness of her lips, taste her warmth and capture the smell of her femininity.
The roughness of her hands had gone, the sheen was back in her long hair and her eyes were full of liveliness. Her vitality was back, too, not the playful vitality that had been there over three and a half years ago, but something else, an imaginative energy that he had never seen before.
Sigi was different. She was not just a beautiful lady, but a complete and dignified woman, a woman who had been languishing beneath a veneer of immaturity for too long.
Von Menen was confused, mystified and enamoured, too. This was not the Sigi Bredow of yesteryear; not the same Sigi who had once bared her bosom at the late-night Königin Café, poured champagne down the cleavage of a minx at Sapini’s and howled with laughter from a box at the Berlin Opera when the rest of the house might otherwise have heard a pin drop. This was a different Sigi, a Sigi with a new depth of awareness, a far-reaching intellect, a Sigi who, after the war was over, was determined to go into politics and ‘rid Germany of this evil element once and for all’.
Fate had delivered von Menen the thinking man’s Aphrodite. Something was happening, an agonising temptation bearing down on him like a steam press, veiling the memory of someone else. He knew it was wrong and he tried to shake it off, but the desire came rushing back, again, again and again, each time more tormenting than the last.
The talking stopped and the kissing started, long, deep and desirous; arms, hands and legs everywhere, the pent-up feelings of yesteryear about to explode.
‘Oh, Carl, dear Carl, we shouldn’t…’
But the hours were ebbing away. He wanted her desperately and she wanted him, the same desire, strong, deep and powerful, the kind of love, affection and closeness they’d never shared before.
He woke at four the next morning, wrestling with an inner conflict that was tearing at his heart, the mellowing effect of the champagne gone, reality back, vivid and sharp, banging at his conscience like a blacksmith’s hammer. He’d betrayed Maria and dishonoured himself. Now, as he made ready to leave, he faced the same shameful burden of betraying Sigi. He agonised over trying to forget her, leaving her there, going to Tempelhof alone and washing his mind clear, but Sigi insisted. And when he recalled the plan he had in mind, he knew he had to agree with her.
At Tempelhof Airport, von Menen was completely lost, his mood reflecting a depth of torment that had taken just thirteen hours to evolve, the flames of anxiety licking at his heart.
Sigi stood silently by the side of the car, watching as he took out his suitcase and the large cardboard box containing the doll’s house. She was shivering, partly through cold and partly through nerves – the venue, the time, the suitcase, the man.
Von Menen threw his topcoat around her shoulders and they walked silently towards the terminal. He stopped at the door, placed the box and his suitcase on the floor and turned to face her.
‘Well…’
Her bottom lip trembling, she reached up and pressed a finger to his lips.
‘Please, don’t say anything,’ she said, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘In all these years, you never took me seriously and I wanted you so much. It was always you. It still is.’ She tried to be brave but her voice faltered. ‘Yes, it was my own fault,’ she confessed, sobbing uncontrollably, ‘I know that now… The immature, reckless Sigi Bredow, good for a bit of fun, but nothing else. Now look at me. I’ve suddenly grown up.’
Frozen by the events of just one night, von Menen stood silent and expressionless. She fixed him with a spearing look, her eyes more beseeching than ever.
‘I still want you,’ she urged, ‘and after all these years, I think, perhaps, you want me.’
Von Menen was speechless, emotion choking back his words, his shallow nod barely perceptible, his eyes doing all the talking. He knew he was in a mess.
‘But if the truth’s known,’ she went on, ‘for some reason, you can’t have me, can you?’
He placed a hand across his forehead, drew it down over his face, as if trying to wash away the anxiety. But the anxiety was still there. He moved towards her and held her tight.
‘I’m sorry, Carl,’ she said, ‘I’m making a complete fool of myself.’
‘No you’re not,’ he whispered. ‘You’re right, Sigi, I did see something in you last night, something which…’ He paused, shaking his head in despair. ‘But there’s nothing I can do about it.’ His eyes filmed with water.
‘I think I know,’ she said in a faint voice. ‘You’re not coming back, are you?’
He drew away from her, fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys to the Delahaye, pressing them into her hand. ‘Listen carefully, Sigi… I want you to take my car. In one of the boxes I brought for you, there’s a wad of petrol coupons. Do you have any relatives in the west?’
She nodded ‘Yes, my aunt… my father’s sister. She lives in Cologne.’
‘Sigi, it’s no secret that the attacks on Berlin will
intensify, and for sure, the Russians will get here first.’
‘I know, Mummy and I worry about it all the time. We’ve heard some awful stories.’
‘I don’t want to alarm you, Sigi, but they’re not stories. It’s why I want you and your mother to get out of Berlin as soon as possible. Your best bet is with the Americans or the British. Go as far west as you can. You’re sure to be okay in Cologne. With the coupons, you’ll find some money, including American dollars. There’s enough to last you for five or six months. If you need anything else, try and get in touch with my parents. They’ll be moving to Flensburg. Their new address is in an envelope inside one of the boxes.’
At that, a man in a Lufthansa uniform poked his head through the terminal door.
‘Are you going to Munich, sir?’ he called.
‘Yes,’ replied von Menen.
‘Then you’d best hurry, the flight’s closing.’
They embraced one last time. She gave him back his coat and he picked up his two pieces of luggage. She allowed him a few yards and then sprinted after him, grabbing him by the sleeve.
‘Carl, listen! Please listen! I love you! I’ll wait for you! My aunt, in Cologne… Her name is Ursula Bredow. She lives at…’
A passing truck drowned out her voice, and with that, von Menen was gone.
The DC3 climbed heavenwards and through the darkness. “Kurt Lindemann” took his final glimpse of smouldering, war-torn Berlin.
It was seven-ten and at that very moment, some 320 kilometres to the south, a cell door clanged shut behind one of Flossenbürg’s many inmates.
Werner had done his job. Lutzi Helldorf was free.
30
Tuesday 16th January 1945
‘Thank God, Carl,’ said Cortes, looking at his watch. ‘I’d just about given up on you. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’