‘Stefan Lubert?’
A bad start. The British official pronounced his name the French way, with a silent ‘T’. When he stood, Lubert’s legs were weak with pins and needles. The clerk behind the glass wore the navy-blue CCG uniform and had one of those toothbrush moustaches the Führer had made his signature. Lubert had never liked any kind of moustache, and had secretly thought the Führer’s a silly affectation. It was odd that so many British servicemen still opted for this style. Didn’t they see who they resembled! To think that he might have his freedom denied by an English Hitler lookalike!
‘Your certificate.’
Lubert stroked the certificate, smelt it and even pressed it to his chest as though it were a billet-doux. He had a Persilschein! He wanted to kiss the Hitler lookalike and wave his certificate in the air and tell the whole of Hamburg: ‘I am clean! I am free to work! Free to travel! Free to live!’
Lubert left the building and stepped into the street. He breathed in deeply and crossed the road, to stand at the very edge of the ruins. Steindamm marked the outer limit of the firestorm’s reach and, even four years on, this was still plain to see: on one side of the street stood six-storey buildings; on the other an area of flattened ruination stretching south to Hammerbrook, like a great plain meeting sheer, jagged cliffs. It was lifeless except for black redstarts looking for food in the snow melt and homes in the rubble.
He watched the birds and started to imagine: all the rubble cleared and the foundations for new buildings dug, the roots of future buildings flowering out of the ground; a library with a loggia overlooking a courtyard, a hospital with an arcade, a school that has gadrooning and bossage! A new cinema with his signature minstrels’ gallery for outdoor projections. Roads for cars. Paths for bicycles. Pavements for people. Trees planted in lovely boulevards. Boat houses on the lake. Trains on raised tracks running over the roofs of the houses. Fountains firing water in patterns like flowers. Parks and gardens to think and talk and play and dispute and share in. He could see a whole new city growing out of the desolation. A fine city fit for children, parents and grandparents, lovers and seekers, for the broken and the fixed, the missing and the missed, the lost and the refound.
Epilogue
Ozi and Ernst walked along the banks of the Elbe, taking the back route to the good Tommy’s house.
‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ Ernst asked. ‘You had the chance.’
It was true. Ozi had had the Beast in the cross-hairs of his x4 Zeiss, his finger on the trigger of the Mosin-Nagant, butt hard to his shoulder the way Berti had showed him. They had been walking like hunters through the park, feet pointing out, knees bent, looking to shoot a pheasant, when there, right in front of them, they’d found a black panther with his head inside the guts of a deer, his neck muscles twitching as he pulled the meat off the bones. Ozi could see the teeth like piano keys, the black fur like a fancy lady’s coat, the eyes like emeralds. ‘Go on!’ Ernst had whispered. ‘What are you waiting for?’ Ozi could have taken him there and then, but he couldn’t do it, and in the moment of his uncertainty the great cat looked up, winked his emerald eyes and slinked away.
Ozi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain it.’
As they walked on, Ozi swatted away the squadron of flies that had engulfed his head.
‘I swear we’re in for a thousand years of flies. The little bastards have taken over the city. They’re not choosy. A fly would requisition a turd, invite his whole family and all his cousins to stay, and call it home.’
‘I miss the snow now,’ Ernst said. ‘At least it was keeping a lid on the stink.’
They came to the bend in the river, the point where Ozi had thrown his mother’s ashes off the end of the jetty. He wondered where she was now. There was no telling where a river might take you if you let it. She could be in Cuxhaven. Heligoland. Sylt. Just as long as she hadn’t got caught in the mudbanks of Grünendeich, only for those bastard-fat crows to have her for breakfast. There was a moment, when the wind blew her ashes back over his boots and into his mouth, when he thought he really should have scattered her over the ruins of Hammerbrook or sprinkled her on the lawns of the Jenischpark. But then he remembered what she had always said: ‘I’d like to live by the river.’ So he waited for the wind to die down then scooped her up from the cake tin in one handful and threw her ashes out, and this time they’d settled like snowflakes over the waters of the Elbe and floated off west to the sea.
As they got closer to the house, Ernst started to get twitchy.
‘I’m not sure we should be doing this. You think we should be doing this?’
‘Edmund’s our friend. He always gave us ciggies.’
‘The police might still be looking for us.’
‘We’ll move between the trees, sly as the Beast himself.’
They turned in from the river, traversed the gardens and crossed the road, moving from tree to tree until they were opposite the gates of the house. They climbed a tree to get a better look over the garden fence. Ozi had taken the Zeiss sights from the Mosin. He pulled them from his pocket and started to scan.
‘See him?’ Ernst asked.
The colonel’s old car was no longer in the drive and the Tommy flag was no longer flying on the pole. There was no sign of Edmund or the colonel or the colonel’s wife. Not a trace.
‘I can’t see the Tommies.’
‘Maybe they’ve gone back home.’ Ernst offered. ‘They’re probably sitting by the Vhite Cliffs of Vindsor, making jokes about Hitler’s balls.’
Ozi felt a tremendous sadness at the thought of this, and not just because he needed cigarettes. He continued to scan the house and grounds, hoping to catch sight of his friend – or any of the good Tommies.
Through a downstairs window of the house, Ozi saw something move. He adjusted the sights and saw the legs of a man standing on a ladder. The father of Berti’s girl was fixing something: a picture on the wall. Ozi watched this for a while then continued tracking: window–wall–window–garden. He saw a lady sitting in a chair facing the river. She was working at something with a needle and thread, but he couldn’t make out what.
‘What can you see now?’
‘There’s a lady. But it’s not Edmund’s Mutti. I’ve never seen her before. She looks nice enough. Though she’s no Marlene D.’
‘Someone’s crossing the garden,’ Ernst said. ‘A fat girl.’
Ozi drew back from the sights and saw a girl walk across the garden towards the lady in the chair.
‘It’s Berti’s girl.’ He looked through the sights again. ‘Someone’s put a medicine ball down her skirt.’
‘What?’
Ozi lowered the sights. ‘Berti’s girl is going to be a Mutti.’ He handed the Zeiss to Ernst and continued to watch the scene with his naked eye. He thought about his brother. He should know about something like this.
‘There’s a man coming now,’ Ernst said.
Ozi saw the father of Berti’s girl walk across the garden towards the others with a tray of coffee and cake. He laid it on the garden table and pulled up a chair next to the lady. He said something to her and took her hand.
‘Shall we come back later?’ Ernst asked. ‘Ozi? What do you want to do?’
‘Let’s watch for a bit longer,’ he said. ‘I just want to see what happens.’
Acknowledgements
My father for telling me how, in 1946, my grandfather Walter Brook requisitioned a house in Hamburg for his family and did something unique in allowing the owners to remain in their property, thus leading to a German and British family sharing a house for five years, starting one year after the Second World War. A situation that gav
e me the inspiration for this novel.
My uncle Colin Brook who, along with my father, provided essential background detail, memories and texture (as well as photographs) from that time. Without this, I would not have been able to construct my own picture or story.
My agent, Caroline Wood, who for years badgered me into writing the story, insisting that it should be a novel (as well as screenplay) and didn’t stop badgering me until I gave her enough words for her to get a publisher interested.
Jack Arbuthnot, film producer at Scott Free, who, after hearing my pitch, commissioned a script, an act that galvanized my agent into badgering me even more into writing the novel.
My editors, Will Hammond at Penguin and Diana Coglianese at Knopf, for taking a leap of faith on a book that was only one sixth written then helping me sculpt the slab of putty I eventually delivered into something worth reading.
Various friends who have, over the years, encouraged me to write another novel when I wasn’t sure if I would or should or could again. You know who you are.
My wife and editor-in-chief, Nicola, who has put up with me trying to write while she has been teaching truly great literature for the last twenty years.
The Author Of All Things.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published 2013
Copyright © Rhidian Brook, 2013
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ISBN: 978-0-241-95749-3
The Aftermath Page 31