The Violent Century

by Lavie Tidhar

  – Well, the Old Man says. Setting the matter of this King aside. He is not unknown to him. To us. So you went into the Soviet zone, the Old Man says. Not through … official channels.

  – No.

  – I take it that wasn’t difficult for you, Fogg.

  – No, Fogg says. It wasn’t.

  123. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946

  – I didn’t like going into the Soviet zone, Old Man, Fogg says. That split infinity: the present imposed on the past … Walking through the night, this lunar landscape of Nazi architecture reduced to rubble, all but for Fat Boy Göring’s Ministry of the Air. Makes Fogg think, for just one moment, of the Eastern Front.

  – No one did, he says. Too many scalp-hunters disappeared there. The Soviets were playing the endgame just as we were. They were hoarding up Übermenschen like a kid hoards candy and they didn’t like to share.

  Hears, as if through underwater, the Old Man’s reply. He walks through that dark, dead land and the fog crescendos around him, and he slips past the Soviet checkpoint, unseen and unheard, a shadow man in a shadow world.

  The Soviet quarter. The Soviet zone.

  Not much different to the rest of ruined Berlin. Snow on the ground, treacherous puddles underneath frozen surfaces. Dark, dirty water. Fogg curses when his foot lands in one, breaking the thin ice, the cold water would soak into him if it could. He hurries his steps. Aware of tiny sounds, of eyes in the dark.

  – Everyone knew the end of the war was just the beginning, Fogg says. The Soviets and the Yanks had carved up Berlin as a prelude to carving up the rest of the world. We were no longer important to them. We just tried to hold on and carry away as many crumbs as we could.

  – Rule Britannia … the Old Man says.

  Fogg shakes his head, trying to clear it. Makes his way along the ruined streets, past dark figures huddled around a fire, past a patrol of Russian soldiers talking in lowered voices, past a rat scurrying along the wall: rats, he thinks. The only other animals to survive in Berlin that winter.

  What could possess Snow Storm to hide in the Soviet zone? Fogg wonders. He could have gone to the Americans, been given a new life, papers, a ticket out. He knew he couldn’t come to the Brits. Not when they still had a personal score to settle.

  And he wouldn’t go to the Soviets, Fogg knows. Not voluntarily. No one ever did.

  He takes out the note Franz had given him. Checks the address again. It takes him some time, but by trial and error he finally finds it.

  This street is relatively undamaged. The smell of boiled cabbage wafts weakly out of an open window. There is a working street lamp outside. A row of double-storey buildings. The sound of mute conversation from inside. A handwritten sign on grey cardboard: Pension.

  Fogg approaches the Pension’s door. Waits for a moment, as if thinking. Then he raises his hand and knocks, with his fist, on the door.

  124. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – So far, the Old Man says, this tallies with your report.

  He picks up another dossier. Opens it. Leafs through silently until he reaches a page where he stops, stabbing it with his finger.

  – Let’s see, the Old Man says. Yes …

  He reads aloud from the page.

  – I was approached by an informant of mine named Franz Schröder, the Old Man reads out. I had been cultivating him for some time. He was a native Berliner and had fought on the Eastern Front. He had no love of the Nazis after that. He knew Berlin very well. He was a rat but he always brought me good information.

  The Old Man raises his head. Looks at Fogg. Shakes his head.

  – He was a rat but he always brought me good information?

  Fogg shrugs, a little uncomfortably. What did you expect, he says, Shakespeare?

  – I’d have settled for Marlowe, the Old Man says.

  The Old Man picks up the report again and reads.

  – Franz approached me at the Der Zirkus nightclub, a popular hangout – the Der Zirkus, Fogg?

  The Old Man shakes his head again. He claimed to know the whereabouts of Erich Bühler, codenamed Schneesturm. Most concise, Fogg.

  – Thank you?

  The Old Man ignores him. Continues reading: The address was in the Soviet zone. I went there that same night. I found the address.

  – Yes, Fogg says. Remembering. It was a boarding house.

  125. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946

  Fogg knocks loudly on the door. The sound echoes in the quiet street.

  There is no answer. He can feel them behind the door. Waiting for him to go away. Whoever he is. Whatever he wants. Knowing that he won’t. Knowing that a knock in the night will never lead to anything good. Fogg knocks again, louder. He bangs on the door. Saying, in effect, as clearly as he can – I am not going to go away.

  Sounds behind the door. He stops banging. There’s the sound of a key turning, latches removed, then the door opens. An old woman stands in the door, two frightened children peering from behind her. The woman wears a faded yellow dress and a worn military coat over her shoulders. Her hair is white and thin. Her eyes are the eyes of a bird. She doesn’t speak. Looks at Fogg. Studies him.

  – May I come in? Fogg says, in German. He doesn’t wait for an answer though. Walks in. The woman retreats from him, her and the two children. Fogg closes the door behind him and turns to face them. Looks at the room. Not much in it. A small Primus stove. A pot on it. He walks to it, lifts the lid. The smell of cooking cabbage hits him fully in the face. He replaces the lid on the top. Turns back. Gestures at the children. Your own? he asks.

  The old woman looks at him as if weighing her options. Finally, reluctantly: My sister’s, she says. She is dead.

  – I am sorry to hear it, Fogg says.

  – The Russians killed her.

  Fogg doesn’t – quite – shrug. This is war, he says. And this is Berlin.

  The woman looks at him. Not afraid. You blame us? she says. You think we knew? Before the war I had Jewish neighbours. We never had problems with the Jews.

  – No, Fogg says.

  – They left, the old woman says. Did I make them leave? Did I force them? She seems to be appealing to him. Her hands rise, palms open, old fingers with broken nails. I am a woman, she says. What power do I have?

  Fogg looks at her. Wonders where she’d been, what she’d done. The smell of the cabbage makes him want to gag or light a cigarette. Stares at the woman, remorselessly.

  – You are a German, he says.

  All the answer she’ll ever receive.

  Reaches an officious hand towards her. Give me your papers, he says.

  She stares at him. He stares back. Fog rising outside, closing on the windows. Quickly now, he says. The woman reaches into her dress and comes back with a worn ID book. Fogg opens it, looks at it perfunctorily. The woman’s photo. The handwritten details of her life, in Russian and German. Fogg keeps it in his hand. Without the ID book, the woman is nothing. It is her life he is holding, her essence. The way witches and wizards were said to decant their soul into a material object, to keep it safe. He is holding the woman’s soul.

  There is something dangerous, illicit about it. That sense of power over another human being. Perhaps, he thinks, this is how the Nazis felt all the time. Perhaps that’s why they did what they did, the death camps, and the Einsatzgruppen, the war. Something intoxicating about that power, whether over one person, or millions.

  Fogg clears his throat. How many tenants do you have here? he says.

  – Seven, the woman says.

  – Seven people?

  – Seven families.

  Fogg holds the ID book. Moves it, idly. The woman’s eyes are fixed on his hands, follow the ID book’s movement.

  – All families?

  – Yes.

  Fogg shrugs. Maybe I have the wrong place, then, he says.

  He makes to hand the woman her ID book back. As she reaches for it, however, Fogg seems to change his mind. He withdraws it, with that same
air of officialdom, of official boredom, and watches as the woman’s hands drop to her side.

  – I’m looking for a man, Fogg says.

  It’s the old woman’s turn to shrug. There are many men in this city, her shrug seems to say. Many living. Many more dead. Too many men. Just take your pick. But there are none here to interest you.

  – A young man, Fogg says. The woman’s eyes slide to her ID book. Her broken nails are yellow around the edges. She looks up at Fogg, defiance in her eyes. Of young men we have no more, she is, perhaps, saying. We have used up our young men and now even their bones are ground to dust.

  – Blond, Fogg says. So blond his hair looks white.

  Watches her closely. Like snow, Fogg says, softly.

  The woman shakes her head violently. There is no such man here, she says.

  Fogg reaches into his pocket, comes back with money. United States dollars. The woman’s eyes widen when she sees the notes. Are you sure? Fogg says.

  – I am telling you, the woman says. There is no such man here.

  Fogg holds the money. The woman watches it, as if hypnotised. The money in one hand. The ID book in the other. Fogg weighs them before her.

  – An Übermensch, Fogg says. Watches her. The woman shakes her head, No, no.

  Fogg’s voice is low, confident. We can protect you, he says. The woman flares. Her hand shoots up. Like you protected my sister when your soldiers raped and killed her? the woman says. She was out on the street looking to get bread for the children.

  – You said the Russians killed her, Fogg says, taken aback by her reaction.

  – British, Russian, American … the woman says. You’re all the same.

  Fogg stares at the old woman. The old woman stares at Fogg. It’s a stand-off. Neither of them seems willing to give in first.

  Fogg, at last, smiles. Makes the money disappear. Like a magician. The woman stares at his other hand. Fogg courteously hands her back her ID book. She takes it quickly, pushes it into a hidden pocket in her dress.

  – Well, thank you for your time, Fogg says. Sorry to have bothered you.

  Nods. Walks to the door. Then stops. Turns back. Smiles again. Reaches into his pocket and comes back with a handful of American sweets.

  – For the children, he says.

  They peer out behind the woman’s legs. A boy and a girl. Fogg stretches out his hand and they come to it, shy but determined. They take the sweets from him. Their little fingers are hot and sticky. Fogg straightens, nods. The children retreat to safety behind the old woman’s legs.

  – Gute Nacht, Fogg says.

  He walks outside. Closes the door. Hears the old woman locking it behind him. He takes a deep breath of air. It feels so much fresher after that oppressive smell inside, that cabbage boiled to its death. He stares into the night, feels the cold on his skin. He raises his face. A whiteness, falling. Tiny kisses.

  Fogg looks up, into the falling snow.

  126. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – I visited the boarding house but encountered no one but for the proprietress, who denied all knowledge of a man answering Snow Storm’s description residing at that address—

  The Old Man reads out loud from the page; his voice fills the room, its drone a soothing spell woven across dust motes and light beams, bouncing soundlessly at the speed of thought. Could you make your sentences any more convoluted? he says, accusingly.

  Fogg doesn’t answer. Perhaps he is half asleep, seduced at last by the night and the lateness of the hour and the heat of the room. Tea is a distant memory. The Old Man returns to the report. Wets his finger, turns the page. The sound of the page like the fluttering of wings. The Old Man reads. I made a search of the premises and was satisfied with the woman’s account, following which I left.

  Raises his head. Stares at Fogg. Shakes his head, slightly. And that’s all she wrote, he says.

  Fogg shrugs.

  – That’s all she wrote, the Old Man says, softly. Remember that? Something else to come out of that war.

  Fogg raises his head at that. Nods.

  Remembering.

  – I knew a few guys like that, he says.

  127. NORMANDY, FRANCE 1944

  The bombs are falling, and overhead Allied planes streak low across the sky, De Havilland Mosquitoes and Supermarine Spitfires, Liberators and Hurricanes and Invaders. Fogg and Mr Blur sit in a trench, leaning against sandbags, and the sky is a maelstrom of coloured lights, a fireworks show. General army soldiers man the machine guns. The Germans are up ahead, only a short distance away, the invasion is a reality now but the Hun is giving back a bloodied fight, Fogg has seen more dead bodies litter the beaches of Normandy than he could ever forget, they will rise from the waves and from the sand in his dreams for years to come, bloated corpses shambling in their worn uniforms as giant poppies grow out of the ground until they envelop them in red.

  Fogg smokes a cigarette. Mr Blur sits with his little legs crossed beside him, holding an envelope in one hand. The envelope is torn and crumpled and covered in mud and spots of what looks like rust but might, in fact, be blood. Mr Blur hesitates as he holds it in his hand. Fogg turns to him, raises his eyebrows in a mute query, Mr Blur shakes his head. Want me to read it for you? Fogg says. Volunteers. Mr Blur mulls it over. Shakes his head. No, he says. I’ll do it.

  Slits open the envelope. Carefully. His nails are long and clean despite the war. Withdraws a single sheet of thin paper, aerogramme-style. The ink is blue. Hesitates again. Someone shouts – Incoming! They duck instinctively for a moment, heads between thighs, as the bomb explodes. Well get on with it then, Fogg says. The sound of machine-gun fire fills the air, the smell of cordite, bitter like nutmeg. Well? Fogg says.

  – Don’t rush me!

  The bombardment goes on all around them. Fogg ashes the cigarette. Mr Blur reads out loud.

  – Dear Ron.

  – There is no easy way to say this.

  He stops. Looks to Fogg, who looks away. Giving Mr Blur the illusion of privacy. Another bomb, somewhere nearby, and a scream cut short.

  – There is no easy way to say this. I met another man.

  Fogg looks away. Smokes as Mr Blur reads the rest of the letter silently, to himself. It is not, Fogg notices, a very long letter. At last he is done. He holds the thin sheet of paper in both hands. Stares at it for one long moment. Then he folds it neatly and slides it back inside the envelope.

  – And that’s all she wrote, he says, with a sad smile. It is the smile Fogg remembers, for years afterwards. That sad little smile on Mr Blur’s face, a moment before someone shouts – Incoming! And then they’re both up and this time it’s close, too close, the soldier ahead, Fogg never even learned his name and now he never will, the soldier is thrown backwards through the air as the machine gun explodes, the gunman is dead before he even hits Fogg and shards of molten metal spray across the dugout and it’s the only thing that saves Fogg, that dead nameless soldier and that’s all she wrote.

  128. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – So then what happened? the Old Man says. Looks at the page. Drums his fingers on the desk. Raises his eyes and looks at Fogg.

  Who says, I don’t remember.

  The Old Man waits him out. It’s all in the report, Fogg says. Reluctant.

  – Which report? the Old Man says.

  – The other report. The one I made directly to you. After the … after what happened then.

  – When you left the old woman’s boarding house.

  – Yes, Fogg says. When I went outside.

  129. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946

  Snow falls like a benediction. It touches Fogg’s upturned face. It turns the world white. It muffles sound, it blankets the world in silence. It makes Fogg smile, a hunter’s smile, a smile of anticipation. Then there’s a roar of wind, which he is only partly prepared for. He half turns, raising his hand to protect himself, and a figure comes flying out of the whiteness at him, like a ghost, like a white g
host; it knocks Fogg back, slamming into him and it is solid, a white thing of snow and flesh, and Fogg rolls, landing on the ground painfully.

  He hasn’t got the time to react. Wind and snow reach for him like hands, lift him up bodily, slam him against the wall of the boarding house. Fogg curses, angry now, punches upwards in an uppercut that connects with something soft and he hears the other grunt. The pressure eases, for just a moment. The white shape flitters back, disappears behind the falling snow. Fogg spits blood and grins and calls the fog to him and it comes, like an obedient dog. The very air is singing. It is a two-tone cry that rises, that vibrates like strings through the air and the moisture in the air, through condensation, water molecules, hydrogen and oxygen atoms, nuclei, quarks. An elemental music.

  One tone, rising, thrums through Fogg’s body, through his very soul: it is the sound of subatomic particles responding in a collapsing wave of probabilities, of molecules forming and re-forming around him, of a great and comforting gathering fog:

  While the other, a discordant tone, is one he had heard once before, that night in Paris. It is a song of molecules not dispersing, becoming diffuse, but rather pressing together, forming into something hard and yet soft, a whiteness not a greyness, snow where there should be fog, ice where there should be smoke. Fogg launches himself from the wall, comes flying at the other, fog shards like blades sweeping before him, slicing through ice. For a moment both fog and ice clear and he sees the other cleanly, the blond hair and the blue eyes and the laughing mouth and he says, Schneesturm.

  – Herr Fogg, the other says, mockingly, and his smile grows wider. Then he is gone and a blast of snow hits Fogg in the face, cold and smarting, and reminding him, strangely, so strangely of a winter before the change, when his father worked in the market and brought him along, and let him loose, and he played, with the other children, along the bank of the frozen Thames, making snowballs and throwing them at each other.