The Unfortunate Englishman

by John Lawton

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You have no idea what life is going to be like in the East from now on. This isn’t just a change that affects them, it affects us as well.”

  “We’ve got each other.”

  That was the last straw. On Sunday afternoon, August 20, as Vice President Johnson whistled his way around West Berlin, out in East Berlin, Eva Moll stole Rick’s bicycle.

  §77

  Perhaps it was something to do with it being Sunday. Perhaps more to do with the American ballyhoo taking place in the West, but it was quieter at Bernauer Straße.

  As she arrived, workmen emerged from the back door, slapping the dust from their clothes with the flats of their hands. They upturned half a dozen wooden crates, set out their bread and sausages, flipped the caps on their bottles of beer. Quite by chance she had arrived at their lunch break.

  She’d heard the lock click as they came out. Her key was clutched in her hand, but she waited until the first dirty joke of lunchtime had set them all laughing before approaching. No one looked around as she turned the key.

  Up on the second floor she found they had been working in her apartment. They’d respected her property, moved her possessions away for the windows and put down dust sheets. Ironic, the persistence of good manners—after all she was quite certain no one would ever be allowed to live in this building again, and the evictions would lack all semblance of manners.

  In her bedroom, the workmen had laid a dozen rows of bricks inside the window frame, the cement still wet. It would be the work of seconds to demolish the barrier.

  First she needed to find everything she meant to take with her. No souvenirs, no treasured childhood toy, no favourite book. She’d be ­practical—clothes and shoes. Nothing that would not fit in her smallest suitcase. And when the suitcase was full, she dragged the dust sheets off her bed, and upended the mattress against the wall. Two storeys was what? Twenty feet? More? The mattress looked too insubstantial to break her fall.

  She went out into the corridor. Every door was unlocked. In Frau Schocken-Hauser’s apartment she found a solid, goose-down mattress, so overstuffed it took all her strength to drag it back to her own bedroom.

  What happened next needed to happen quickly.

  One kick and the rows of wet bricks tumbled into the street below. She looked out. Some hoo-ha, some other jumper, was preoccupying people fifty yards up. No one had paid any attention.

  Then her mattress, shoved through the window to flop down lightly. Then Frau Schocken-Hauser’s mattress, hoisted, dragged, and shoved to crash down with a bass thud and a hiss of air as though some fairy-tale giant had breathed his last.

  That did not go unnoticed.

  And all she had to do was jump.

  Standing on the windowsill.

  All she had to do was jump.

  Now men were running down the street and yelling up at her.

  Jump—before the buggers at the back heard the commotion.

  With her suitcase in her hand, Eva jumped.

  Bumped down, arse first on the spot she had aimed for.

  She had closed her eyes. When she opened them, two young men were standing over her with a blanket, held out like some sort of safety net.

  “What kept you?” she said.

  §78

  West Berlin: August 20

  Berlin had built the Marienfelde Centre to be redundant, or, rather, in the optimistic expectation of redundancy. It was designed to be easily reconfigured as apartments once its primary purpose had lapsed. It was said that it looked like a post-war housing project for the proletariat. More fancifully, a backlot set for a dystopian film in a totalitarian state directed by someone like Fritz Lang—a grid of clean lines, symmetry and regularity. The boxy shape of things to come. To Nell it had always looked like a prison, even its name Notaufnahmelager sounded like a prison, and she had made it her mission to ensure that it never felt like one.

  The flood of refugees had slowed in the last week, but it was hardly a trickle even now. Somehow they were getting through, and a camp designed to house 1,200 was still overcrowded. They sat in corridors and in the yards, perched on their suitcases and bundles—Nell always wanted to ask “What did you bring?” wondering what she might take if she ever had to abandon almost everything. In a sense she had. Twice. Leaving Berlin a few months before the Russians arrived, her mother’s last warning “Don’t look back,” and leaving Celle to walk back to Berlin in summer the same year with only a knapsack, two days’ food and a copy of Andersen’s Fairy Tales. She had not starved . . . the kindness of strangers . . . nor would these, the stragglers . . . those who had waited almost too long.

  Her secretary, Cosima, appeared in the doorway, breathless and flustered.

  “They’re coming here!”

  “Who’s coming here.”

  “The mayor . . . Brandt and whatsisname . . . you know, the American vice president. The motorcade’s on its way, they’ll be here in fifteen minutes! What do we do?”

  “Do?” said Nell. “We do nothing. What did you have in mind, a quick whip round with a mop and a duster? We run a refugee camp, so that’s what we’ll do. Run it.”

  “Oh God, Nell. You’re impossible.”

  A quarter of an hour later, she heard a tap on the open door. A man in his early thirties, the two-piece suit and rimless glasses that seemed to be the uniform of the professional men of her generation. And, yes, she knew him now. Marcus Dürer, the mayor’s dogsbody.

  “Fräulein Burkhardt. How pleasant to see you again. I’m afraid we are pressed for time, so if you would be so kind as to line up your staff for the vice pres— ”

  “Which way did you come in Herr Dürer? The main gate?”

  Nell returned to her papers, scribbled a note in the margin, not looking at Dürer.

  “Why? Yes.”

  “Then you may have noticed a hundred or so people in the courtyard, and perhaps as you came down the corridor to my office a hundred more to trip you up? And as you look out across the lawns the row upon row of tents housing all the Flüchtlings who came through in the last days before the present crisis and for whom we have no beds? So where do you think my priority lies. In lining up on parade for the Amis or getting on with the job?”

  She looked at him now.

  “Fräulein Burkhardt, I would appreciate your cooperation as I’m sure you appreciated mine last week. And I take your point. The job must come first. Perhaps if you, and only you, gave us ten minutes of your time, we might be able to accommodate a vice presidential whim without making it seem that we lack respect?”

  “Does he have many whims?”

  “Rather too many. We run around like scalded cats. We have two men assigned just to go shopping for him.”

  “All right, let’s take a walk through the canteen. Mr. Johnson can press the flesh and kiss what few babies there are while our Flüchtlings eat. He might find it an education.”

  “Your sarcasm notwithstanding, thank you. Please lead the way.”

  The motorcade had stopped just inside the main gate. Johnson had stepped out of the open-topped car and was holding a girl of seven or eight in his arms—every inch the politician on the campaign trail. The girl frowned, unhappy at being singled out. Brandt stood just behind him, and big men with crew cuts and bulging jackets seemed to be dotted about everywhere like pieces on a chessboard.

  Johnson set the girl down, one of his huge hands ruffling her hair, acknowledging Nell’s approach with a stare of curiosity. He was, she thought, unprepossessing—big nose, donkey ears and a chin that rippled in contours of flesh to bury itself in his neck. The child was still not smiling. Johnson almost was—as much as letterbox lips would allow.

  “And you must be the Miss Burkhardt these gen’lemen have been tellin’ me about?”

  Johnson spoke no German, and his interpreter moved closer, pois
ed to speak. Nell did the merest double take at these words, glanced at Dürer and got in first—in English.

  “Welcome to Marienfelde, Mr. Vice President. Have you had lunch?”

  §79

  Cosima passed her in the main courtyard.

  “I can’t believe you did that. Feeding the vice president of the United States C-rations!”

  “Really? He seemed quite partial to the processed cheese. And he pocketed the chewing gum and took it with him.”

  “One day, Nell, you’ll get us both shot.”

  Dürer had vanished without her noticing. No doubt speeding ahead to prep the way for the next pointless display of concern and futility. She had meant to thank him for the food and to apologise for her rudeness. He hadn’t asked for that. He was only doing his job and had let her get on with hers. As she crossed the footpath a tall man in a pale, stylish suit detached himself from the gaggle of prominenti and walked quickly towards her. It was Brandt, alone—no guards, no flunkies.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk, Fräulein Burkhardt.”

  “The show must go on, Mr. Mayor.”

  Did Brandt frown at this? Did she bite her tongue?

  “I might agree with you that politics and show business often look alike, but I know we can achieve more than the clowns and lion tamers. Marcus thinks your work here will soon be over. Do you?”

  “Yes. The Russians will tighten and tighten their grip and perhaps in a month or two the Flüchtlings will run at one or two a week. The centre will be an expensive indulgence and one you will doubtless wish to spare the city.”

  “I agree. The Russian grip will become total, and we shall learn to live with it. Defiance will give way to pragmatism—to a new politic. One the Americans may not understand. One I feel you could help us create. When you want to move on, phone my office, give your name, and ask to be put through to me. They’ll be expecting your call. I can hold the post until Christmas, no longer. The choice is yours.”

  He didn’t say goodbye, simply turned on his heel and walked away. Had he just offered her a job?

  Nell called after him. “You mean a job?’

  He turned for a moment.

  “Yes. A job. Don’t wait forever.”

  §80

  It was close to six in the evening. Nell was tired, self-recriminating, and felt like calling it a day. She couldn’t. For a week, each day had seemed like no other; the unpredictable was to be expected. Instead she would play the deputy headmistress, get up from her desk and ­inspect—inspect everything and everyone, down the corridors out onto the courtyard where the fresh Flüchtlings of the afternoon sat with bags and bundles, relieved and scared, free and homeless.

  A dozen or so from the end of the line was Eva Moll. Her left leg was propped up on a suitcase. She winced with pain as Nell approached. Rubbed at her ankle.

  “Eva?”

  “It’ll pass. I twisted my ankle when I jumped. Nothing’s broken.”

  “You jumped?”

  “Well . . . the buggers nailed up the doors and bricked up the windows, didn’t they?”

  “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “I have come to you.”

  “I mean . . . to me . . . at home.”

  “What? And have you tell me ‘I told you so’? Remind me that I didn’t listen when you warned me? No, I prefer to meet you in your professional mode. If you are going to be schoolmarm-strict and po-faced then at least you’re only doing your job. In your apartment I’d find you insufferable and I’d take it personally. This is better by far. I fucked up, I am homeless, a refugee, I go where the hopeless fuckers go, to Marienfelde, to Fräulein Burkhardt.”

  “You don’t have to . . .”

  “Nell, please . . . I expect no favours. I don’t want to jump any queue. I’ve jumped far enough for one day. So stamp your foot, put on your cast-iron face and oblige me by asking if there’s any ice for my ankle.”

  “I am not po-faced!”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Oh God, Nell. You’re impossible.”

  §81

  Nell found ice. And then she found a wheelchair. Stuck Eva in it and pushed her to the S-Bahn station.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re coming home with me. To Wilmersdorf. You will have to learn to live with my ‘po-face.’”

  §82

  Tom Radley lived down to Wilderness’s expectations. The news that LBJ had left Berlin, scooting through the cloud of dust that had not yet settled from his arrival, brought forth only scorn, when Wilderness wanted insight and interpretation.

  “Heard the one about the Yank at the Louvre? Quick, quick, where’s the Mona Lisa, I’m double-parked! He even skipped out on his own troops arriving to fit in a bit more shopping.”

  “Where do the mayor’s apparatchiks hang out?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The mayor’s staff. Surely there’s a bar in Schöneberg where they gather to grouch and grumble after work.”

  “Of course there is. But why would you want to go there?”

  Wilderness ignored this and said simply, “You drive, Tom. Make yourself useful.” And he knew from Radley’s cheery “okey dokey” that he had not heard the insult.

  In the Jägerkeller, a bar Wilderness did not think he’d ever been in before, they were surrounded by men the best part of ten years younger, men in stylish Italian suits, men with close-cropped hair, men striving to look like their bosses—the bright young things of the Brandt administration. The complaining bright, young things . . . forced to work a weekend just to accommodate the vice president of the United States.

  “Das Einzige, das er getan hat, war das Schuhekaufen. Es hätte auch eine Visit von Jackie sein können.”

  All he did was shop for shoes. We might as well have had a visit from Jackie.

  “Hätten sie Jackie geschickt, würden wir wenigstens auch Jack bekommen haben.”

  If they’d sent Jackie at least we would have got Jack. “Glauben Sie, dass Kennedy jemals kommen wird?”

  Do you think Kennedy will ever come?

  Who cares? It’s all over. The wire is up. The slabs are down. Soon the slabs will be a permanent wall and anyone stuck on the other side is fucked. What can the Amis do about that? Buy more fucking ashtrays? Hand out more fucking pens?

  So saying, the man took a handful of vice presidential LBJ monogrammed biros out of his pocket and tossed them up in the air like rice at a wedding, to clatter down on the table and the floor.

  I’m the Texas cowboy. I’m the vice president. Have a pen. Oh fuck me, I forgot the fucking paper hats and the fucking campaign buttons. Rah fucking rah.

  While they laughed, Wilderness bent down and picked up a pen. It might just prove a point to Burne-Jones when it came to convincing him of the truth of what he’d just overheard. LBJ’s rapturous reception by the Berlin crowds was no reflection of his reception at City Hall. What these arrogant young brats were saying was not diminished by their youth or their arrogance. They were Brandt’s Camelot. This was what Brandt was saying, and if not saying thinking so clearly they had read it in his face.

  When the laughter finally died, another of the young suits said to the one who’d been making all the jokes, “Haben Sie gehört, was Brandt sagte zu Kleist?”

  Did you hear what Brandt said to Kleist?“Zu Kleist? Wann?” To Kleist? When?

  “Vor etwa einer Stunde.”

  About an hour ago.“Ich hörte ihn. Er sprach sehr leise, aber ich schwöre, dass er sagte: ‘Kennedy macht Hackfleisch aus uns.’”

  I heard him. He was very quiet but I’d swear he said, “Kennedy is making mincemeat out of us.”

  “Scheisse!”

  It seemed to Wilderness that every young man in Brandt’s entourage had uttered the same crude German
syllables and with them all doubt as to what Brandt was thinking vanished.

  He had no difficulty persuading Radley to go home, that there was nothing else to be done. If they had office jobs, Radley would be the kind of bloke who always managed to sneak off after lunch on a Friday.

  Such as it was, Wilderness went back to their “office” and phoned Burne-Jones on the scrambler.

  “It’s a fiasco.”

  “Not according to the BBC news. Johnson seems to have gone down rather well.”

  “Mickey, Goofy, and Pluto would have gone down rather well.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It is close to irrelevant who the Americans sent. The crowd was always going to rip up its bed linen for flags, throw flowers, and cheer. I’m not sure LBJ even saw the bloody wall, he was so busy glad-handing. Berliners wanted a gesture, and they got it. Brandt wanted action. He got nothing. The closure of the East is a fait accompli. There’s nothing he can do about it and he knows it. There’s nothing the Americans will do about it. And he knows that too.”

  “What next?”

  “Next?”

  “I suppose I’m asking what you think Brandt will do.”

  “I think he’ll accept a new status quo. He’ll find a way to live with the wall and work with the Russians. I think he’ll probably never trust an American again.”

  “Bad as that, eh?”

  “Closing the East suits almost everyone. The human drain stops, so Khrushchev is happy. The barriers going up suits Kennedy. It’s as clear a statement as could be that Khrushchev has no designs on the West. We win, they win. The losers are Berlin and Brandt.”

  “How succinctly you put it, Joe.”

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “Tom Radley is a twat.”

  “Now, Joe . . .”

  “A complete and utter twat.”

  There was a silence Wilderness would not be the one to break.

  “I can’t just relieve him of his post.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “For one thing . . . there’s Masefield. He has . . . built up a relationship with Masefield.”