He stood rooted to the spot and moments later heard the front door snap shut. Still he couldn’t bring himself to move. His cheek was on fire, but he didn’t care.
At least she was getting some fresh air.
74
Hannah wakened to the sun shining through the window and the sound of pots and pans clattering. From the kitchen next door the smell of coffee wafted towards the bed.
The bed!
She still had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. She was in a proper bed, where she fell asleep in the evenings and wakened the next morning. Free to go at any time.
Even so, things with Felix weren’t quite as she would have liked. Generous as he had been, at night he sought payment for his largesse and Hannah wasn’t prepared to oblige. Whenever he touched her, she was reminded of the Crows, who had taken what they wanted just so long as they were drunk enough.
Felix wasn’t like that, he respected her ‘no’, but it did nothing for his mood, which had deteriorated so much his place had ceased to feel like home. She couldn’t give him what he wanted, and her plan was to wait for the first really warm spell to leave for somewhere she could start afresh. Until then she would continue to wash his dishes, put his dinner on the table and do whatever else was required. Except for one thing.
She shuffled into the kitchen and couldn’t believe her eyes. Felix had made breakfast. Alongside a pot of coffee, he had managed to get hold of a few bread rolls. No one had done this for her before. No one had done anything for her before. Felix was the first. All right, maybe Fritze too.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I was just about to wake you. Coffee?’
She nodded and blinked into the sun, smiling at him.
‘Sit.’ He poured.
‘What a beautiful day,’ she said.
‘Spring’s around the corner.’
They sat drinking coffee and dipping their bread rolls, until she felt compelled to break the silence. ‘Maybe we should head out to the country,’ she suggested.
‘Can’t. There’s something going down.’
‘Can’t they leave you alone on Sundays?’
‘Not them. I’m working alone.’
‘What?’
‘I got a tip-off. No need for them to know. That way it might be worth it for a change.’
‘But how are you going to manage? On your own . . .’
‘Not quite on my own.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re coming on look-out duty.’
Now Hannah understood what breakfast had been about. She had been worried he might ask her something like this ever since she’d moved in; ever since she’d discovered he owed his comforts to a burglary ring. It was no secret and she had cottoned on pretty quickly. ‘I don’t know.’
Felix looked at her in astonishment and anger. ‘Where d’you think the money comes from? I thought you liked sleeping in a bed, but maybe you prefer life on the streets?’
‘No, no.’ Hannah was startled by his sudden unfriendliness. ‘I was just . . .’ She shrugged. ‘How are you going to get rid of the swag without the gang finding out?’
‘If that’s all your worried about, you can rest easy, it’s all in hand.’
‘I was just saying.’
‘Once it’s done we’ll go somewhere nice, just the two of us. Promise. Cinema, dinner, dancing.’
He came across as a slightly hapless lothario. Perhaps that’s just how he was, and he was better at practical things. Where talking wasn’t required.
He hadn’t told her where he was going to break in or what he was going to steal. It couldn’t be anything heavy since they weren’t even taking a handcart, let alone the truck the ring used to stow their loot, and which he was sometimes permitted to drive. That’s what he claimed, but Hannah suspected he was showing off. A burglary ring would never let a boy without a license behind the wheel.
Whatever, right now, they were on foot, crossing the Thielen Bridge towards Kreuzberg until Görlitzer Bahnhof, where they walked through the dark, piss-stained Görlitzer pedestrian tunnel to reach the other end of the station. From there it was under the elevated railway at Schlesisches Tor, until, finally, reaching a small square, they turned into a blind alley somewhere between Köpenicker Strasse and the Spree.
The cobbled path where they halted was like a cross between a factory site and a rear courtyard, surrounded as it was by dilapidated brick buildings, which could have been large workshops or small factories. The blind alley ended at a loading dock from which several doors led into the heart of one of the buildings. The colour had started to flake from the signs. OHLIGS CABINETMAKERS, Hannah read, next to an enamel sign advertising spark plugs. Was this even public land?
‘Don’t worry,’ Felix said, his voice low. ‘It’s only busy during the week. Right now there isn’t a soul for miles.’
‘What about the people who live here?’
‘They won’t come near the yard. Besides, they’re all at worship. The Protestants in the Emmaus Church, and the Catholics in the Liebfrauen.’
‘What about the Jews?’
‘There’s only you.’ Felix fetched his picklocks from his pocket and made a serious face. ‘No point being scared. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anyone, whistle.’
‘Whistle? Isn’t that a little obvious?’
‘A tune, so that no one gets suspicious. As if you’re just whistling to yourself. Clear?’
She nodded, and Felix jumped onto the ramp, where he fiddled around until a door opened and he vanished inside.
75
He missed the dog most of all. At night when she lay at the foot of the sofa it felt as if he had found a friend. It wasn’t easy getting used to life on the streets again after two nights under a warm blanket with a roof over his head, and two days in which he realised there was such a thing as family, or at least such a thing as home.
Herr Rath had been right to show him the door. A boy like Fritze Thormann didn’t belong in Charlottenburg, not in an apartment like that with a couple soon to be married. Still, something in him didn’t understand why he had been chucked out. He ought to have been grateful for the ten marks. Instead, not for the first time, he had choked back tears.
Idiot, why do you have to kid yourself? Stop dreaming! Open your eyes and see life for what it is!
Then there was the dog . . . He wondered if he should get a thing like that, then he wouldn’t be so alone. A dog could protect him, even if it would make finding a bed that much harder. Already he had been forced to sleep rough, since his old haunts were taken and for the first time in weeks he had failed to find anywhere new. At least it wasn’t so cold now, spring was on its way, not that he slept any better for it.
Luck had deserted him, even begging wasn’t the same. In the meantime he had given up any hope of seeing Hannah again. If this cripple really did mean to kill her then it was best she keep a low profile, but he still caught himself looking for her, begging at a new station each day. As he spoke with people and kept an eye out for cops, time and again he found his gaze drawn to girls who resembled her.
Using his takings to buy a hot broth near Schlesischer Bahnhof yesterday lunchtime, he had overheard people on the next table discussing a man who had promised money for information. Fritze couldn’t understand everything, but there was talk of an escaped lunatic and it sounded very much like Hannah. Even so, it wasn’t until he heard the word scar-face that his ears really pricked up. It wasn’t a cop who was looking for her, nor a warder from the asylum, but the man who’d chased her out of Bahnhof Zoo! The man who was trying to kill her, if what Charly said was right. Aunt Charlotte. He had liked her, had thought she trusted him, yet here he was back on the streets.
Görlitzer Bahnhof wasn’t a great spot. Most people were from Cottbus or Breslau and barely had money for tickets, but today the sun was out and good weather put people in a good mood, which made them more generous.
As usual he kept an eye out for Hannah as he put the moves on passers-by, when all at onc
e he saw something familiar. Not a girl with a red beret, but a man with a dark winter coat and bowler hat. And a strange, unrhythmic gait.
He looked again, but the man had disappeared. Were his eyes playing tricks? The lady he’d asked for fare money shook her head as he hared off in pursuit of the bowler hat. Forget the money! This was his route back to Charly.
He was too small to make out the hats bobbing up and down, but luckily there weren’t many bowlers. Most wore flat caps like his own. Four or five hats appeared again and again in the sea of heads, but only one moved erratically.
Fritze didn’t know what to do. Tell Charly? He had already taken forty pfennigs this morning. Should he spend ten on a call? Charlottenburg was a long way away. By the time she got here he might have lost him. His eyes flitted between the telephone booths on Spreewaldplatz and the crowds.
76
Hannah stood in the yard feeling unspeakably alone. Noises she had scarcely heard moments before suddenly seemed very loud. Wind rattling sheet metal. The thunder of the elevated railway. Was that something from the workshop? What if they caught Felix in the act?
Don’t get worked up, girl!
Ten minutes, he’d said. How long had she been waiting already? She decided to count to pass the time and distract from her fear.
Twenty-one, twenty-two . . .
Stay calm, she told herself. You’re not doing anything illegal just standing here.
. . . thirty-nine, forty . . .
There’s only you.
How did he know she was Jewish? Had they discussed it? Unlikely, it was hardly important. Perhaps she looked Jewish? She had never thought about it before.
Just keep counting.
. . . eighty-seven, eighty-eight . . .
Reaching one hundred and eighty-seven she heard footsteps from somewhere beyond the bend, from the alleyway that led onto Köpenicker Strasse and which was invisible from here.
Shit! They should have gone to the country after all. But . . . it didn’t have to mean anything. Why shouldn’t someone be approaching? It didn’t have to be a worker, and certainly not a cop.
She started whistling. She didn’t know many tunes and plumped for Üb immer Treu und Redlichkeit.
She tried not to look, making as if she were more interested in one of the other doors leading onto the courtyard, as far away as possible from the cabinetmaker’s workshop where Felix had vanished.
She whistled louder and for a moment the footsteps appeared to die, but then they drew closer and from the corner of her eye she saw a shadow. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be heading for the workshop. That was good, but they were coming towards her.
Feverishly she tried to think of a story, when suddenly the shadow made a strange, lopsided movement, as if the person it belonged to was drunk or had a . . . limp!
She ceased whistling, the final note stuck in her throat.
‘Do carry on. It’s such a lovely tune.’
That familiar old voice . . . She turned around and there he was, twisting his scar-face into a grin. He was on her at once, with astonishing speed, much quicker than she’d have thought possible. Huckebein was still nimble, still strong. A soldier. He’d been the same in the Crow’s Nest, despite his leg.
He had boxed her into a corner. In his right hand was the long dagger which, he used to boast, had seen off countless Frogs and Tommys. Her eyes darted this way and that. If she could get past him maybe she’d have a chance. Goddamn blind alley!
She lunged right, only to swerve left, and he fell for it. She had just about evaded him when there was a stabbing pain in her arm and side, and she felt herself seized by an ice-cold hand. She was losing her balance, tumbling with him to the floor. The dagger slid across the cobbles with a clink. She must have knocked it out of his hand, or he’d lost it in the fall. Either way the thing was a few metres behind them on the pavement, so too his bowler, spinning around like a drunken whirligig.
Huckebein was no longer armed, but then neither was she, and he had her in his grasp.
She defended herself but, as ever, had no chance. After a brief, wordless tussle, he forced her onto her back and kneeled on her arms. She thrashed her legs, but it was no use. He had her at his mercy. Her impotence made her angry, gave her newfound strength, but still she was no match. Only now did it occur to her that she wasn’t alone. That she could cry for help. ‘Felix!’
The grin made his face even more repulsive.
‘Your Felix is long gone. Who do you think it was that shopped you?’ She let out a shrill cry, and he held her mouth closed. ‘There’s no one here. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.’ His hands gripped her throat. ‘You could have had a quick and painless death, but you know I prefer it this way.’
She gasped for air, felt the strength being sucked from her body. Desperation kicked in, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t move her arms under the weight of his knees, didn’t even reach him with her legs. She wriggled like a fish on dry land until her panic was replaced by fatigue, and a desire for peace. Why not just yield?
All at once she felt the pressure on her neck subside and the weight on her arms grow lighter. Hope returned and, with it, the will to live. She gulped air into her lungs as Huckebein’s shadow emerged through blurred streaks of light, waving its hands as if to banish an invisible swarm of wasps. She heard her frantic breath, and Huckebein’s cry.
Then all was still.
77
It was early for cognac, but the glass Rath poured after finishing breakfast (mainly coffee) helped dispel his hangover. The telephone had wakened him around ten. He staggered over, but by the time he got there the caller had hung up.
Charly, was his first thought, but he had resisted the temptation to call Greta. There was no question that’s where she was. Other women might go to their mother; Charly went to Greta. What was up with her? How could she let a harmless discussion about politics spiral like that?
After she had gone he had smoked two cigarettes, fed Kirie and left her in the care of the porter, and headed out along the Ku’damm to the Kakadu-Bar.
Despite the national uprising, business was much the same. The music was still good and American, the booze likewise, and, with the right change in your pocket, you could forget about the world outside, which was precisely what Rath intended to do, sampling a few drinks as he listened to the music and the chatter of his fellow patrons.
Still, Charly was on his mind and he had spent the evening being angry at her, longing for her, and drinking himself into a stupor. Back home he reached for the cognac, and so found sleep.
Since being wakened he hadn’t taken his eyes off the telephone, but it hadn’t rung again. Unless he’d missed a second call when he was under the shower?
One more cognac, he thought, then it’ll be time for Kirie’s walk. After that, we’ll see. He felt a strong urge to drive by Spenerstrasse with a bouquet of flowers, but his pride told him to wait for her to call and apologise. He was so focused on the telephone he needed a moment to realise the doorbell was ringing.
He ran into the bathroom to put a comb through his still-wet hair and check his shirt and tie before going to answer it. Kirie was there already, wagging her tail expectantly.
He hesitated, took a deep breath and opened, at pains to appear as indifferent as possible. It was Fritze. Rath was stunned into silence. The boy seemed equally put out, having no doubt expected Charly to answer.
‘I’ve found Hannah,’ he mumbled.
‘You’ve what?’
‘She said to tell you. I have Hannah.’ Fritze looked at him anxiously, stealing a glance inside. ‘Where’s Charly?’
Rath thought there was a note of desperation in the boy’s voice. ‘Not here,’ he said, sternly.
Fritze looked at him as if wondering if he could really trust this man. It was a moment before he spoke again. ‘Something terrible has happened. You need to help us.’ Heavy sobs racked his body.
Rath took the boy into the apartment and cl
osed the door. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. The boy didn’t seem to hear. Rath steered him into the kitchen and sat him on a chair, a sobbing marionette.
Rarely had he felt so helpless. He hated situations like this. Hated them so much he made the call he had been shirking from all morning. As the operator patched him through he was secretly glad it had nothing to do with yesterday’s fight.
Greta answered. ‘Charly’s not here,’ she said, almost as soon as she heard his voice. He hadn’t even asked for her.
‘Tell her Fritze is back.’
‘Fritze who?’
‘Just tell her, for fuck’s sake! Fritze is here and I need to speak with her. So would you please just get her.’
‘First, I won’t be sworn at. And second, I won’t be ordered around.’
‘You stupid cow . . .’
Click.
If there was one woman who could make his blood boil quicker than Charly, it was Greta Overbeck. He slammed the phone down. What was he supposed to do with the boy howling in his kitchen?
Settle him first. Rath went back into the kitchen, where Fritze had at last stopped crying. He was sitting on the chair stroking Kirie. His eyes were still moist, but he had wiped the tears from his face.
‘Sorry. I don’t usually cry like that but . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ Rath said. ‘My father wouldn’t let me cry, but sometimes there’s no other way.’
‘All the same. Don’t tell anyone. That goes for Charly too.’
‘Your secret’s safe.’ Rath filled a glass with water and sat next to him. Fritze drank, and the water seemed to calm him.
‘I can’t get hold of Charly,’ Rath said. The news didn’t unsettle the boy as much as he’d feared. ‘Now tell me what happened. You found Hannah.’ Fritze nodded. ‘And where is she now?’
The March Fallen Page 31