Grunwald left the cellar just before daylight and went back up into the street. He had slept irregularly, waking every so often in the intense cold: and yet there was another cold, an inner sense of chill, that seemed to have its origins deep inside him. At least there had been no dreams, and he was thankful for that. The very thought of dreaming acted upon him like a scalpel.
In the street he began to walk, and walked until he discovered his exact whereabouts: the corner of the Ludwigskirche and Fasanenstrasse. At the back of his mind he was conscious of having accepted the necessity of going to Munich. In one sense, he realized that he should never have spent such a long time in Berlin but he had argued against himself that one dreary war-broken city was much the same as another: so why not Berlin rather than anywhere else?
But this was feeble reasoning for the very simple reason that it negated the need to make a decision. It had forced him to believe that nothing he could do would alter anything. And even now he was not sure if he could change, if he had the courage needed to impose order upon his life. When he considered this – the need to make sense of chaos – it occurred to him that whatever he did would not in any way change the nature of his guilt. It might shadow it, it might obscure it, but it would not remove it. Guilt was something he carried around inside him, that constantly broke the fragile surface of his mind and flamed his memories with a sickening fire: it was not possible to purge himself entirely.
He crossed dead streets in the gathering dawn and wondered cynically if perhaps he was being driven – yet again – by fear rather than the desire to shift the basis of his life. He was afraid of encountering Schwarzenbach again, of dying, of being murdered, which seemed to him a more reasonable motive for wanting to leave Berlin than any other, more honourable, compulsion. What would he do in Munich? Pick up some sort of thread and start again? The very idea agonized him: how was it possible to live in Munich and become, say, a bank clerk? The clerical figure, neat in his dark blue suit and respectacle spectacles, whose hands are covered in blood and who lives in fear of at best exposure, at worse assassination – how was that possible? He felt infinitely weary of everything and knew, without having to probe his own motives any further, that he was running again, that he was fleeing from the shapes and sounds of the past and the threats that came like bullets out of yesterday.
Change: how was change possible? He was swapping one landscape for another, when the only real environment was the one he witnessed inside his own mind. And how was it possible to enter into a world of relationships with other people, when all the time – amidst all the superficial contacts – there was a continual process of self-accusation?
Munich was an excuse, a refuge, another place to which he was fleeing.
Schwarzenbach entered the building where he lived and knew instinctively that something had changed in his absence. Something was different. There was an atmosphere. In the hallway he stopped, as if listening for something. Yes, something had changed in the last few hours. But what? He went towards the stairs and then he paused. The electric light overhead blinked and the fringed shade that hung around it shook slightly. He made no move to climb the stairs, aware distantly of some kind of danger. He was reluctant, without understanding why, to put his foot on the first step.
A door in the hallway opened and he turned round quickly. Herr Zollner, the caretaker, a shabby little man who wore a green plastic eyeshade around his forehead, peered out.
‘Herr Doktor,’ he whispered, beckoning Schwarzenbach forward.
‘Herr Doktor, please,’ he said again, when Schwarzenbach didn’t move at first. He held open his door and Schwarzenbach entered the caretaker’s room. It was a large, smelly place: it contained the scents of old age – stale urine, sweat, and a peculiar smell that Schwarzenbach associated with senile flesh.
Zollner stood in the middle of the floor, worrying, rubbing his hands together in agitation. ‘Herr Doktor, oh Herr Doktor,’ he said, over and over again, as if he were learning a language for the first time.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Schwarzenbach asked. There was a distant sound from somewhere above, like a heavy piece of furniture being toppled over. He felt alarmed.
‘Upstairs in your apartment,’ Zollner said, clasping at his eye-shade breathlessly.
‘What about my apartment?’
‘Soldiers,’ the caretaker said and looked for a place to sit, and found an armchair where he slumped down in the manner of someone suffering cardiac arrest.
‘What soldiers? What bloody soldiers?’ Schwarzenbach gripped the old man’s arm and shook it.
‘Americans. They came here an hour ago. Six or seven of them. Said they wanted to search your room.’ Zollner took out a khaki handkerchief and spat into it. ‘I couldn’t stop them. They went upstairs. They’ve been banging about a bit. Oh, dear God, I don’t know what’s going on –’
‘Is that all?’ Schwarzenbach asked.
‘They said if you came back after they had gone, I was to get in touch with them and tell them. But I couldn’t do that, could I? How could I spy on you like that?’
Schwarzenbach looked around the room in desperation, trying to gather his thoughts. What did it mean? What were they searching for? Did they now have some definite evidence? Or were they looking for some? Or were they simply trying to harass him? He went across to the window and looked out. Parked on the other side of the street about a hundred yards away were two cars, their sidelights shining.
‘Thank you for telling me, Herr Zollner,’ he said.
‘But what does it mean? What does it mean, Dr Lutzke?’
Schwarzenbach shrugged: ‘I’m not sure.’
Still staring from the window, he tried to consider the situation calmly. Had they uncovered some new fact he had overlooked? Again he thought of his talk with Seeler and wondered despairingly if Seeler’s prediction had come true. But no – he couldn’t think like that. It was defeatist to suppose that they knew his real identity. Quite suddenly he felt secure, for no apparent reason he felt that nothing they could say or do would touch him in any way. It was the feeling he had had while talking to Seeler, it was the extraordinary sensation that he was above and beyond the grubby mundane behaviour of the Americans and that their game of wits could end only with him outsmarting them. He turned to look at the caretaker.
‘Thank you again for warning me, Herr Zollner,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I shall do what anyone in my position would do. I shall go upstairs and demand an explanation.’
The caretaker clapped his hands together. ‘That’s the way, Herr Doktor. They come in here, think they can do what they like, I told them, you know, I told them you were a medical man and much respected, Herr Doktor, but they pushed me aside, an old man like me, just shoved me aside as if I was garbage.’ The caretaker flapped after Schwarzenbach as he moved towards the door. ‘They think they can do whatever they like to Germans, don’t they? They think they can push us around –’
Schwarzenbach opened the door and stepped into the hall. He felt curiously elated now, as if his mind were no longer bound to his body. He walked briskly towards the stairs and, glancing back once at the figure of the caretaker, started to climb up.
Grunwald crossed the Pariserstrasse and reached the Kaiser-Allee which he traversed quickly. From there he turned on to the Regensburgerstrasse and walked towards Viktoria-Luise-Platz. At the corner of the Münchenstrasse he stopped, looking this way and that, scouring the empty streets as if for a familiar sign. Not far from here, a few streets away, was the Rosenheimer Strasse. Where was he going? Why was he running again? It seemed to him that the future lay in front of him like a road over which all the electric lamps have failed.
He had reached the intersection of the Münchenstrasse and the Barbarossa. There he paused, as if it were possible to reflect even further on his situation and drag out of himself some vital new factor that would not only explain everything but – like an orac
le – would also decide his future action.
Captain Eberhard appeared to be in charge of the search. Cap in hand, briefcase chained as usual to his wrist, he was watching his men move around the apartment. They had already searched the surgery – the place was in chaos – and had now begun on Schwarzenbach’s bedroom.
Schwarzenbach stood in the doorway that led to the bedroom.
‘I would like an explanation for this outrage, Captain,’ he said, noticing that the men did not even bother to replace the objects they searched.
Eberhard smiled and laid a hand on Schwarzenbach’s arm. ‘An explanation, Doctor?’
‘There must be one,’ Schwarzenbach said.
The American looked inside his cap and laughed: ‘Well, that might be a bit difficult for you to understand, Doctor.’
‘I’m prepared to listen.’
Eberhard shrugged: ‘We’re making a search of your apartment.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Well? What more do you want?’ Eberhard put his cap on his head and moved away from the bedroom door into the kitchen, where he sat down and placed his feet on the table.
Schwarzenbach followed him. ‘I want to know why!’
‘No reason, Doctor.’
The inane smile was fixed to Eberhard’s face as if it were made of cement. ‘No reason?’ Schwarzenbach slapped the table with the palm of his hand. ‘Are you saying that you and your men have come here to search my private possessions without any reason?’
Eberhard said, ‘That’s about it.’
‘What’s the name of your commanding officer?’ Schwarzenbach asked.
‘Major Spiers is in charge of our unit, Dr Lutzke.’
There was a crash from the bedroom. Quickly, Schwarzenbach went to see what had happened. The bed had been turned over on its side, the mattress thrown to the floor, and the water-jug, which had been on the bedside table, lay in broken pieces.
‘This is outrageous,’ Schwarzenbach said.
Eberhard patted his briefcase. ‘Well, well.’
‘Have you nothing to say, Captain?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Eberhard took out a cigarette and lit it. He stared at Schwarzenbach pleasantly, like someone who has come on a social call but who will soon make excuses to leave.
Schwarzenbach sat on the edge of the table. It was clear now: a policy of harassment. That was the name of the game. Well, Eberhard and his men could search for as long as they liked – they would find nothing. He felt superior: neither Eberhard nor Spiers were really certain of their ground – and so they had stooped to this feeble trick. But he could match them, simply by the act of remaining calm and unconcerned.
One of the soldiers came out of the bedroom. ‘Captain, you might like to have a look at this,’ he said.
Eberhard turned round: ‘What is it?’
The soldier shrugged and handed the Captain a book. Schwarzenbach, animated suddenly, leaned forward. It was a medical book that had been removed from the bookshelf in the bedroom.
He said, ‘It’s a textbook on tropical diseases. A standard work when I was a medical student.’
‘Interesting,’ Eberhard said and took the book from the soldier: it lay open at the fly-leaf.
‘Are you excited by tropical diseases, Captain?’ Schwarzenbach asked.
‘Where did you get this book, Doctor?’
‘How should I remember? It was a long time ago. I don’t know.’
‘Think.’ Eberhard was staring at him intently.
‘What’s so important about the book?’ Schwarzenbach asked.
‘It isn’t the book, Doctor. It isn’t the book.’ Eberhard passed it to him. ‘It’s the initials in the fly-leaf.’
In faded blue ink: G.W.S.
Schwarzenbach stared at the letters as if they were accusing him of a crime. His own initials inscribed on the flyleaf of an old medical school textbook.
Eberhard said, ‘They aren’t your initials, Dr Lutzke. Whose initials are they?’
Schwarzenbach said, ‘You obviously don’t know very much about the economics of being a medical student, do you? Possibly students in your own country are more affluent, but when I was studying it was often necessary to purchase books secondhand. And that must have been one of them.’
He ran a hand across his forehead. Strange, he was sweating. Did Eberhard notice his perspiration?
The American took the book back and slammed it shut. ‘Then why didn’t you erase these initials – or score them out – and insert your own? I imagine that that would be standard practice, Doctor.’
Schwarzenbach said, ‘I was never a great one for material possessions, Captain. I possessed the book. That was enough. Why should it be necessary to inscribe my initials inside it as well?’
‘That’s what most people do,’ Eberhard said.
‘You make more generalizations than anyone else I know. Is that an American trait?’
Eberhard looked suddenly angry. He rose from his chair and walked around the room. The chain attached to the briefcase made a soft rattling noise.
‘G.W.S.’ Eberhard stopped by the window. ‘What do those letters stand for?’
‘Really, Captain, do you expect me to know? How could I know that? When you purchase a book in a second-hand store, do you ask the name of the previous owner?’ Schwarzenbach watched the American’s face for a reaction. But there was none: the moment of anger – if anger it had been – seemed to have passed.
‘Maybe I’m making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill,’ he said, and suddenly smiled, and placed the book on the table where it lay closed. He drew a hand across his face. ‘That’s the trouble with this job, Doctor. You never get enough sleep. I’m dog-tired.’
‘Sleeping pills,’ Schwarzenbach said. ‘I may have some –’
‘I never use them, Dr Lutzke. But thanks all the same.’
The soldiers were beginning to come out of the bedroom, their search over. They lined up casually against the wall.
One of them said, ‘We’re finished, Captain.’
‘Okay, men,’ Eberhard said. ‘You can go back to the vehicles.’
One by one the soldiers left. Eberhard lingered behind.
‘Your men have made a considerable mess,’ Schwarzenbach said.
Eberhard said nothing for a moment. And then: ‘You had a talk the other day with Major Spiers. He told me about the little discussion you had. I gather you feel that he made certain unfair and unjust accusations against you –’
‘More than that,’ Schwarzenbach said. ‘They were preposterous.’
Eberhard shook his head: ‘Sometimes he gets mild fixations, you know. He gets a thing into his head and won’t let it lie down. This Schwarzenbach business –’
‘Which is absurd –’
‘I agree. I think we ought to forget it, don’t you?’
Schwarzenbach was surprised. Eberhard held out his hand and they shook hands together.
‘Goodbye, Doctor.’ He looked round the room. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
He saw what it was in a flash. As soon as Eberhard had gone, he knew what was happening. At first he was inclined to think that he was meant to be lulled into a false sense of security, but he dismissed this possibility. It was something else: they were trying now to confuse him. They were trying to mix him up and then trap him into some fatal error. It was the oldest game of all: the art of confusion. It was all perfectly clear to him. Did Eberhard imagine he would fall for that one? It was so childish Schwarzenbach almost laughed. It was infantile and pathetic – all he had to do was remain firm, reveal nothing, and no matter what strategies they employed nothing would happen to him. All he had to do was stick to his story.
No: there was something else. The Jew. What was the point of sticking to his story if the Jew remained alive as a threat to his safety? He could only be completely safe if every angle were covered and all the approach roads sealed.
Herr Zollner was at the door, rubbing his hands together.
‘I asked them to leave.’
The caretaker tapped his plastic eyeshade. ‘Good for you. Good for you.’ Herr Zollner did a quaint little dance that seemed to suggest the joy he felt at seeing the Americans leave.
‘Funny thing,’ he said.
‘What’s funny?’
‘The senior one – a captain, is he? – told me to tell you he was sorry about messing about your apartment.’
‘What’s funny about that?’
Herr Zollner paused a moment: ‘Well, he got your name wrong. He said to me, “Tell Dr Schwarzenbach that we’re sorry.” That’s what he said.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ Schwarzenbach said. ‘He’s a little confused.’
‘Funny thing,’ the caretaker said. ‘Dr Schwarzenbach? There’s no one here with that name, is there?’
‘No one at all.’
Schwarzenbach closed the door.
He picked up the medical textbook from the table where it lay closed. He stared at the initials on the fly-leaf: how many years had passed since he had written them there? Then, with a move of sudden violence, he ripped the sheet from the book and burned it over the sink. As he watched the paper curl in the flame, he knew the Americans would never catch him through their own efforts. They were too clumsy: there was no other word to describe them. They were like ungainly people stumbling around amidst fragile and irreplaceable objects in an antique shop. If they were to trap him they desperately needed help. He washed the charred ashes away and then ran cold water over his hands.
Death’s Head Page 17