‘There’s no one there.’
‘They have nothing, anyway. They’re not allowed to take you. There’s a hostel near the church. You have to stay there.’
‘Where’s the church?’
With an exaggerated sigh she stopped the record, and Leiser knew she was glad to have someone to talk to.
‘It was bombed,’ she declared. ‘We just talk about it still. There’s only the tower left.’
Finally he said, ‘Surely they’ve got a bed here? It’s a big place.’ He put his rucksack in a corner and sat at the table next to her. He ran a hand through his thick dry hair.
‘You look all in,’ the girl said.
His blue trousers were still caked with mud from the border. ‘I’ve been on the road all day. Takes a lot out of you.’
She stood up self-consciously and went to the end of the room where a wooden staircase led upwards towards a glimmer of light. She called out but no one came.
‘Steinhäger?’ she asked him from the dark.
‘Yes.’
She returned with a bottle and a glass. She was wearing a mackintosh, an old brown one of military cut with epaulettes and square shoulders.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Magdeburg. I’m making north. Got a job in Rostock.’ How many more times would he say it? ‘This hostel; do I get a room to myself?’
‘If you want one.’
The light was so poor that at first he could scarcely make her out. Gradually she came alive. She was about eighteen, and heavily built; quite a pretty face but bad skin. The same age as the boy; older perhaps.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. She said nothing. ‘What do you do?’
She took his glass and drank from it, looking at him precociously over the brim as if she were a great beauty. She put it down slowly, still watching him, touched the side of her hair. She seemed to think her gestures mattered. Leiser began again:
‘Been here long?’
‘Two years.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Whatever you want.’ Her voice was quite earnest.
‘Much going on here?’
‘It’s dead. Nothing.’
‘No boys?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Troops?’ A pause.
‘Now and then. Don’t you know it’s forbidden to ask that?’
Leiser helped himself to more Steinhäger from the bottle.
She took his glass, fumbling with his fingers.
‘What’s wrong with this town?’ he asked. ‘I tried to come here six weeks ago. They wouldn’t let me in. Kalkstadt, Langdorn, Wolken, all closed, they said. What was going on?’
Her fingertips played over his hand.
‘What was up?’ he repeated.
‘Nothing was closed.’
‘Come off it,’ Leiser laughed. ‘They wouldn’t let me near the place, I tell you. Road blocks here and on the Wolken road.’ He thought: it’s eight twenty; only two hours till the first schedule.
‘Nothing was closed.’ Suddenly she added, ‘So you came from the west: you came by road. They’re looking for someone like you.’
He stood up to go. ‘I’d better find the hostel.’ He put some money on the table. The girl whispered, ‘I’ve got my own room. In a new flat behind the Friedensplatz. A workers’ block. They don’t mind. I’ll do whatever you want.’
Leiser shook his head. He picked up his luggage and went to the door. She was still looking at him and he knew she suspected him.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘I won’t say anything. Take me with you.’
‘I had a Steinhäger,’ Leiser muttered. ‘We didn’t even talk. You played your record all the time.’ They were both frightened.
The girl said, ‘Yes. Records all the time.’
‘It was never closed, you are sure of that? Langdorn, Wolken, Kalkstadt, six weeks ago?’
‘What would anyone close this place for?’
‘Not even the station?’
She said quickly, ‘I don’t know about the station. The area was closed for three days in November. No one knows why. Russian troops stayed, about fifty. They were billeted in the town. Mid November.’
‘Fifty? Any equipment?’
‘Lorries. There were manoeuvres farther north, that’s the rumour. Stay with me tonight. Stay with me! Let me come with you. I’ll go anywhere.’
‘What colour shoulder-boards?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘They were new. Some came from Leningrad, two brothers.’
‘Which way did they go?’
‘North. Listen, no one will ever know. I don’t talk, I’m not the kind. I’ll give it to you, anything you want.’
‘Towards Rostock?’
‘They said they were going to Rostock. They said not to tell. The Party came round all the houses.’
Leiser nodded. He was sweating. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘What about tomorrow, tomorrow night? I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Perhaps. Don’t tell anyone, do you understand?’
She shook her head. ‘I won’t tell them,’ she said, ‘because I don’t care. Ask for the Hochhaus behind the Friedensplatz. Apartment nineteen. Come any time. I’ll open the door. You give two rings and they know it’s for me. You needn’t pay. Take care,’ she said. ‘There are people everywhere. They’ve killed a boy in Wilmsdorf.’
He walked to the market square, correct again because everything was closing in, looking for the church tower and the hostel. Huddled figures passed him in the darkness; some wore pieces of uniform; forage caps and the long coats they had in the war. Now and then he would glimpse their faces, catching them in the pale glow of a street light and he would seek in their locked, unseeing features the qualities he hated. He would say to himself, ‘Hate him – he is old enough,’ but it did not stir him. They were nothing. Perhaps in some other town, some other place, he would find them and hate them; but not here. These were old and nothing; poor, like him, and alone. The tower was black and empty. It reminded him suddenly of the turret on the border, and the garage after eleven, of the moment when he killed the sentry: just a kid, like himself in the war; even younger than Avery.
‘He should be there by now,’ Avery said.
‘That’s right, John. He should be there, shouldn’t he? One hour to go. One more river to cross.’ He began singing. No one took him up.
They looked at each other in silence.
‘Know the Alias Club at all?’ Johnson asked suddenly. ‘Off Villiers Street? A lot of the old gang meet up there. You ought to come along one evening, when we get home.’
‘Thanks,’ Avery replied. ‘I’d like to.’
‘It gets nice Christmas time,’ he said. ‘That’s when I go. A good crowd. There’s even one or two come in uniform.’
‘It sounds fine.’
‘They have a mixed do at New Year. You could take your wife.’
‘Grand.’
Johnson winked. ‘Or your fancy-girl.’
‘Sarah’s the only girl for me,’ Avery said.
The telephone was ringing. Leclerc rose to answer it.
20
Homecoming
He put down the rucksack and the suitcase and looked round the walls. There was an electric point beside the window. The door had no lock so he pushed the armchair against it. He took off his shoes and lay on the bed. He thought of the girl’s fingers on his hands and the nervous movement of her lips; he remembered her deceitful eyes watching him from the shadows and he wondered how long it would be before she betrayed him.
He remembered Avery: the warmth and English decency of their early companionship; he remembered his young face glistening in the rain, and his shy, dazzled glance as he dried his spectacles, and he thought: he must have said thirty-two all the time. I misheard.
He looked at the ceiling. In an hour he would put up the aerial.
The room
was large and bare with a round marble basin in one corner. A single pipe ran from it to the floor and he hoped to God it would do for the earth. He ran some water and to his relief it was cold, because Jack had said a hot pipe was dicey. He drew his knife and carefully scraped the pipe clean on one side. The earth was important; Jack had said so. If you can’t do anything else, he’d said, lay your earth wire zig-zag fashion under the carpet, the same length as the aerial. But there was no carpet; the pipe would have to do. No carpet, no curtains.
Opposite him stood a heavy wardrobe with bow doors. The place must once have been the main hotel. There was a smell of Turkish tobacco and rank, unscented disinfectant. The walls were of grey plaster; the damp had spread over them in dark shadows, arrested here and there by some mysterious inner property of the house which had dried a path across the ceiling. In some places the plaster had crumbled with the damp, leaving a ragged island of white mildew; in others it had contracted and the plasterer had returned to fill the cavities with paste which described white rivers along the corners of the room. Leiser’s eye followed them carefully while he listened for the smallest sound outside.
There was a picture on the wall of workers in a field, leading a horse plough. On the horizon was a tractor. He heard Johnson’s benign voice running on about the aerial: ‘If it’s indoors it’s a headache, and indoors it’ll be. Now listen: zig-zag fashion across the room, quarter the length of your wave and one foot below the ceiling. Space them wide as possible, Fred, and not parallel to metal girders, electric wires and that. And don’t double her back on herself, Fred, or you’ll muck her up properly, see?’ Always the joke, the copulative innuendo to aid the memory of simple men.
Leiser thought: I’ll take it to the picture frame, then back and forth to the far corner. I can put a nail into that soft plaster; he looked around for a nail or pin, and noticed a bronze hanger on one of the pelmets. He got up, unscrewed the handle of his razor. The thread began to the right, it was considered an ingenious detail, so that a suspicious man who gave the handle a casual twist to the left would be going against the thread. From the recess he extracted the knot of silk cloth which he smoothed carefully over his knee with his thick fingers. He found a pencil in his pocket and sharpened it, not moving from the edge of his bed because he did not want to disturb the silk cloth. Twice the point broke; the shavings collected on the floor at his feet. He began writing in the notebook, capital letters, like a prisoner writing to his wife, and every time he made a full stop he drew a ring round it the way he was taught long ago.
The message composed, he drew a line after every two letters, and beneath each compartment he entered the numerical equivalent according to the chart he had memorised: sometimes he had to resort to a mnemonic rhyme in order to recall the numbers; sometimes he remembered wrong and had to rub out and begin again. When he had finished he divided the line of numbers into groups of four and deducted each in turn from the groups on the silk cloth; finally he converted the figures into letters again and wrote out the result, redividing them into groups of four.
Fear like an old pain had again taken hold of his belly so that with every imagined sound he looked sharply towards the door, his hand arrested in the middle of writing. But he heard nothing; just the creaking of an ageing house, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship.
He looked at the finished message, conscious that it was too long, and that if he were better at that kind of thing, if his mind were quicker, he could reduce it, but just now he couldn’t think of a way, and he knew, he had been taught, better put in a word or two too many than make it ambiguous the other end. There were forty-two groups.
He pushed the table away from the window and lifted the suitcase; with the key from his chain he unlocked it, praying all the time that nothing was broken from the journey. He opened the spares box, discovering with his trembling fingers the silk bag of crystals bound with green ribbon at the mouth. Loosening the ribbon, he shook the crystals on to the coarse blanket which covered the bed. Each was labelled in Johnson’s handwriting, first the frequency and below it a single figure denoting the place where it came in the signal plan. He arranged them in line, pressing them on to the blanket so that they lay flat. The crystals were the easiest part. He tested the door against the armchair. The handle slipped in his palm. The chair provided no protection. In the war, he remembered, they had given him steel wedges. Returning to the suitcase he connected the transmitter and receiver to the power pack, plugged in the earphones and unscrewed the Morse key from the lid of the spares box. Then he saw it.
Mounted inside the suitcase lid was a piece of adhesive paper with half a dozen groups of letters and beside each its Morse equivalent; they were the international code for standard phrases, the one he could never remember.
When he saw those letters, drawn out in Jack’s neat, post-office hand, tears of gratitude started to his eyes. He never told me, he thought, he never told me he’d done it. Jack was all right, after all. Jack, the Captain and young John; what a team to work for, he thought; a man could go through life and never meet a set of blokes like that. He steadied himself, pressing his hands sharply on the table. He was trembling a little, perhaps from the cold; his damp shirt clung to his shoulder-blades; but he was happy. He glanced at the chair in front of the door and thought: when I’ve got the headphones on I shan’t hear them coming, the way the boy didn’t hear me because of the wind.
Next he attached aerial and earth to their terminals, led the earth wire to the water pipe and fastened the two strands to the cleaned surface with tabs of adhesive plaster. Standing on the bed, he stretched the aerial across the ceiling in eight lengths, zig-zag as Johnson had instructed, fixing it as best he could to the curtain rail or plaster on either side. This done, he returned to the set and adjusted the waveband switch to the fourth position, because he knew that all the frequencies were in the three-megacycle range. He took from the bed the first crystal in the line, plugged it into the far left-hand corner of the set, and settled down to tune the transmitter, muttering gently as he performed each movement. Adjust crystal selector to ‘fundamental all crystals’, plug in the coil; anode-tuning and aerial-matching controls to ten.
He hesitated, trying to remember what happened next. A block was forming in his mind. ‘PA – don’t you know what PA stands for?’ He set the meter switch to three to read the Power Amplifier grid current … TSR switch to T for tuning. It was coming back to him. Meter switch to six to ascertain total current … anode tuning for minimum reading.
Now he turned the TSR switch to S for send, pressed the key briefly, took a reading, manipulated the aerial-matching control so that the meter reading rose slightly; hastily readjusted the anode tuning. He repeated the procedure until to his profound relief he saw the finger dip against the white background of the kidney-shaped dial and knew that the transmitter and aerial were correctly tuned, and that he could talk to John and Jack.
He sat back with a grunt of satisfaction, lit a cigarette, wished it were an English one because if they came in now they wouldn’t have to bother about the brand of cigarette he was smoking. He looked at his watch, turning the winder until it was stiff, terrified lest it run down; it was matched with Avery’s and in a simple way this gave him comfort. Like divided lovers, they were looking at the same star.
He had killed that boy.
Three minutes to schedule. He unscrewed the Morse key from the spares box because he couldn’t manage it properly while it was on that lid. Jack had said it was all right; he said it didn’t matter. He had to hold the key base with his left hand so that it didn’t slide about, but Jack said every operator had his quirks. He was sure it was smaller than the one they gave him in the war; he was sure of it. Traces of French chalk clung to the lever. He drew in his elbows and straightened his back. The third finger of his right hand crooked over the key. JAJ’s my first call sign, he thought, Johnson’s my name, they call me Jack, that’s easy enough to remember. JA, John Avery; JJ, Jack Johnson
. Then he was tapping it out. A dot and three dashes, dot dash, a dot and three dashes, and he kept thinking: it’s like the house in Holland, but there’s no one with me.
Say it twice, Fred, then get off the air. He switched over to receive, pushed the sheet of paper farther towards the middle of the table and suddenly realised he had nothing to write with when Jack came through.
He stood up and looked around for his notebook and pencil, the sweat breaking out on his back. They were nowhere to be seen. Dropping hastily to his hands and knees he felt in the thick dust under the bed, found the pencil, groped vainly for his notebook. As he was getting up he heard a crackle from the earphones. He ran to the table, pressed one phone to his ear, at the same time trying to hold still the sheet of paper so that he could write in a corner of it beside his own message.
‘QSA3: hearing you well enough,’ that’s all they were saying. ‘Steady, boy, steady,’ he muttered. He settled into the chair, switched to transmit, looked at his own encoded message and tapped out four-two because there were forty-two groups. His hand was coated with dust and sweat, his right arm ached, perhaps from carrying the suitcase. Or struggling with the boy.
You’ve got all the time in the world, Johnson had said. We’ll be listening: you’re not passing an exam. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the grime from his hands. He was terribly tired; the tiredness was like a physical despair, like the moment of guilt before making love. Groups of four letters, Johnson had said, think of four-letter words, eh, Fred. You don’t need to do it all at once, Fred, have a little stop in the middle if you like; two and a half minutes on the first frequency, two and a half on the second, that’s the way we go; Mrs Hartbeck will wait, I’m sure. With his pencil he drew a heavy line under the ninth letter because that was where the safety device came. That was something he dared think of only in passing.
He put his face in his hands, summoning the last of his concentration, then reached for the key and began tapping. Keep the hand loose, first and second fingers on top of the key, thumb beneath the edge, no putting the wrist on the table, Fred, breathe regular, Fred, you’ll find it helps you to relax.
The Looking Glass War Page 23