Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  ‘No, no, young man,’ the woman says resolutely, ‘there you’re absolutely wrong, I’ve been the concierge here for twenty years, I know my trade. What was the name? Spell it for me again.’

  ‘Lassehn,’ Lassehn replies. ‘Ell ay ess ess ee aitch en.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ the woman says stoutly, ‘certainly never lived here.’

  ‘But my dear Mrs …’ Lassehn looks at the sign on the door, caught by a beam of light from the window – ‘my dear Mrs Buschkamp, Mrs Lassehn definitely did live here, or may live here still. I myself …’ he pauses, something holds his tongue, warning him not to give up his anonymity.

  ‘You yourself done what?’ the woman asks quickly.

  ‘I once visited her here myself,’ Lassehn finishes his sentence. ‘But I don’t remember …’

  Mrs Buschkamp looks at him pointedly. ‘How old is this Mrs Lassehn of yours?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ Lassehn replies.

  ‘Ain’t no twenty-three-year-old woman here,’ Mrs Buschkamp says firmly. ‘Whose flat’s she supposed to have lived in anyway?’

  ‘At the front of the building,’ Lassehn says, ‘with her aunt, a woman … something to do with Meyer.’

  Mrs Buschkamp lets go of the handle and opens the door a little more.

  ‘Step in, young man,’ she says amiably. ‘This one’s interesting. Here’s a chair.’ She goes on. ‘You don’t look as if you’re all that keen on standing up.’

  Lassehn thanks her and slumps heavily on the chair.

  ‘Now let’s think about the case of Mrs Lassehn with the aunt called Meyer,’ Mrs Buschkamp says convivially, ‘I’m interested in this one, because I know everyone. Hardly anyone I don’t know goes in or out of here. But Lassehn? No such person, young man, never heard of her, not in my house.’

  ‘But I know for certain …’ Lassehn objects. ‘Her first name is Irmgard.’

  ‘Irmgard?’ Mrs Buschkamp says thoughtfully. ‘Good heavens,’ she shrieks after a moment, and laughs loudly. ‘You mean Irma Niedermeyer, of course, I do know her, she’s out right now. You must have bumped into her a minute ago. She just left!’

  Lassehn is paralysed, he feels as if an iron hand is crushing his chest. So the lady he bumped into a few minutes before at the front door was his wife! She didn’t recognize him! She stood in front of him for a heartbeat, murmured a fleeting apology, she glanced at him and didn’t recognize him, she showed not the tiniest spark of recognition. Lassehn conceals his bewilderment behind a smile of agreement.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and tries to give his voice an indifferent tone. ‘Irmgard Lassehn, née Niedermeyer, that’s the lady.’

  ‘Irmgard Lassehn, née Niedermeyer?’ Mrs Buschkamp repeats in astonishment. ‘Blimmin’ heck, that’s true,’ she adds, and smacks her forehead with the flat of her hand, ‘Irma got married, it was sometime in the middle of 1943, I completely forgot about it. And no wonder …’

  ‘What is no wonder?’ Lassehn asks.

  ‘Well, God knows, it’s not really a marriage,’ Mrs Buschkamp says contemptuously, and shakes her head energetically. ‘A soldier goes on leave, smiles at a girl and takes her to bed and they get married so the child has a name.’

  ‘A child?’ Lassehn asks.

  ‘No, I was just saying,’ says Mrs Buschkamp, ‘it’s just a manner of speech. It’s a very modern sort of marriage, on the quick, not binding, change permitted, they know nothing about each other, but get married they do, off they go, the Führer needs his soldiers. Oh mighty God, how great is your animal kingdom, there’s no shortage of idiots.’

  ‘Forgive me …’ Lassehn protests, feeling wounded. He is about to explain to this kind woman the reasons for his marriage, but then he quickly thinks again. He forgot for a few moments that he is a deserter, that he mustn’t come out of the shadows.

  ‘Have I stepped on your toes?’ Mrs Buschkamp asks and looks carefully at Lassehn. ‘Who are you anyway, young man?’

  ‘My name is Kempner,’ Lassehn replies, ‘I’m a friend of Mr Lassehn, just an acquaintance, in fact, I wanted to see …’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Mrs Buschkamp interrupts him, ‘the music’s gone quiet again.’ She listens in to the next room. ‘There’ll be an air-raid announcement in a minute. Such rubbish, you can’t get anything done any more … “Attention, attention, this is an air-raid announcement. Large squadron of enemy aeroplanes approaching over the North Sea towards Schleswig-Holstein. I repeat …”’

  ‘Well, then we’d better get everything ready,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, and looks at the street, ‘the bunker unit is already on the way.’

  Lassehn is hurt, he remembers what Klose said, about public shelters being subject to keen checks. He still has his Soldbuch, but no leave pass, and he isn’t wearing a uniform, any Wehrmacht or Gestapo patrol could mean the end of him. ‘Where can you take shelter when there’s a warning?’ he asks.

  ‘At the station there’s a public air-raid shelter, but they only let you in with a ticket,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘but there’s another one further over by Pestalozzistrasse. It’s not that far.’

  ‘Where do you go?’ asks Lassehn.

  ‘I’m staying here in my house,’ Mrs Buschkamp answers proudly, ‘the Buschkamps don’t leave their house alone with all those old people in it. Fine thing that would be.’

  Lassehn listens with an interested expression, but it has nothing to do with him. The situation he has got himself into by denying himself and the fact that his wife walked past him as if he were a stranger irritated him, it may be his only opportunity to find out something from an uninvolved third party about his wife, and about himself. ‘To come back to the question, Mrs Buschkamp,’ he begins again, ‘a moment ago you suggested that Mrs Lassehn had only known her husband for a short time …’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly how it was,’ the concierge replies. ‘You must forgive me if I tidy up a bit while we’re talking, but I need to have everything ready when the thing goes off.’

  ‘Have you known Mrs Lassehn for a long time?’

  ‘A long time? Depends what you mean, since she’s been living here in the house, about six or seven years,’ Mrs Buschkamp replies. ‘She’s a pretty girl, very decent, but otherwise …’ She shakes her head as she takes a coat out of the cupboard and hangs it on a hook ready to hand.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lassehn asks excitedly.

  Mrs Buschkamp turns round all of a sudden. ‘Are you interrogating me, young man?’

  Lassehn gives a forced laugh. ‘Not in the slightest, my dear Mrs Buschkamp,’ he assures her, ‘I’m just asking, with no particular intent.’

  Mrs Buschkamp narrows her eyes. ‘With no particular intent?’, she asks incredulously. ‘Anyone who believes that needs their head examining. I can vouch for what I say, I don’t weigh my words, but I also want to know who’s asking me questions. Old Buschkamp isn’t stupid, my dear boy, you’ve got to get up a bit earlier if you want to pull a fast one on me.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, my name is Kempner,’ Lassehn replies, ‘I’m a distant acquaintance of Lassehn. And since I was in the area …’

  ‘Whether you want to tell me your name is Kempner or Schulze or Müller or whatever,’ the old woman says firmly, ‘I couldn’t care less, the name doesn’t mean anything. You are expressing yourself very vaguely, young man. Are you perhaps from some kind of information office?’

  The suspicion is so surprising that Lassehn is at first completely startled, but then he laughs with relief. ‘Information office?’, he says with a smile. ‘Not at all, it’s just personal interest …’ Mrs Buschkamp takes a step towards Lassehn and looks at him steadily. ‘First Lassehn is a friend of yours, then he’s a fleeting acquaintance, and now it’s personal interest,’ she says, and shakes her head vigorously, ‘it doesn’t add up. Or do you fancy Irma?’

  Lassehn holds up his hands. ‘You’re mistaken, Mrs Buschkamp.’

  Mrs Buschkamp winks mischievously. ‘Well, well, well, young man
,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Well, it’s none of my business, but you wouldn’t have a chance with her.’

  Lassehn has to get a grip on himself to keep from sighing with relief. ‘So is she faithful to her husband?’ he asks.

  Mrs Buschkamp shrugs. ‘Well now,’ she replies. ‘You’ve misunderstood me, I meant you wouldn’t have a chance with her.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lassehn asks sadly.

  ‘You’d need to look different,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘you’d need to look dashing, like a cavalier from a fashion rag, or even better in an officer’s uniform. Irma is very fussy! She … oh, damn it, the music has gone again.’

  The music from the speaker has faded, after a few seconds of frightened silence, in which all that can be heard is the monotonous hum of the electricity, the announcer speaks. ‘Attention, attention, this is an air-raid warning. The bomber squadron announced as approaching Schleswig-Holstein is flying towards north-west Germany. Further bomber squadrons approaching Lower Austria. I repeat …’

  Mrs Buschkamp puts a shoulder bag, a gas mask and a steel helmet at the ready. ‘This is it,’ she says seriously. ‘You should get out of here, Mr Kempner, and make sure you’re home when the siren sounds. Where do you live?’

  ‘By Silesian Station,’ Lassehn replies. ‘Will I make it?’

  ‘If you’re lucky,’ Mrs Buschkamp says. ‘But didn’t you want to pay a visit to the Niedermeyers? It doesn’t make much difference whose cellar you’re hiding in.’

  ‘If Mrs Lassehn has gone out …’ Lassehn objects.

  ‘Look at this one,’ Mrs Buschkamp says and props her hands on her hips. ‘I said you fancied that Irma. Don’t you want to ask about him?’

  ‘Yes, of course, where … where is Mr Lassehn?’ Lassehn asks, stammering.

  Mrs Buschkamp chuckles. It sounds like the cry of a jay.

  ‘Funny that you’ve only just thought of asking that question. So you don’t know? That … I keep forgetting his name … so Irma’s husband is a soldier, he was in hospital somewhere in Upper Silesia, God knows where he’s crawling about these days, Irma hasn’t had a letter from him for a few months.’

  ‘When was Mr Lassehn last on leave?’ Lassehn asks. He would like to ask more penetrating questions, but he doesn’t have the courage, he fears this feisty woman’s keen eyes and sharp tongue.

  ‘On leave? I’ll give you on leave!’, says Mrs Buschkamp. ‘Not at all, the young bridegroom slept at his young wife’s place for eight days and since then not a peep. That’s a marriage for you! They’ve barely sniffed each other and already they’re getting married, I call that a dog’s wedding. So, was that the siren going off? No, it was just a tram, we’re already half crazy, we give a start every time there’s a noise.’

  Lassehn nods a few times. He doesn’t know how to ask the questions that are trying to spill out of him without arousing suspicion.

  ‘He was a nice young man, too, Irma’s husband was, I only saw him two or three times,’ Mrs Buschkamp continues, ‘pretty fellow, a bit soft-looking, not really right for Irma.’

  ‘Really?’ Lassehn objects. He is filled with a strange tension, as if through the voice of this down-to-earth woman a neutral judge were delivering his verdict.

  ‘I was surprised at the time,’ Mrs Buschkamp goes on, ‘when Irma turned up with that boy. Don’t get me wrong, Mr Kempner, I thought the young man was very nice, but he wasn’t a match for Irma, he was actually too good for her.’

  ‘In what way?’ Lassehn asks, confused. ‘I had a sense that …’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ Mrs Buschkamp interrupts. ‘You’re practically a boy yourself, what do you know about such things? You see, Irma is a confident girl, she knows exactly what she wants, she needs a man who’s at least ten years older than she is who can show her how to do things, you understand, in every respect. And this … Now, what’s his name again …’

  ‘Lassehn,’ Lassehn says helpfully.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘and Lassehn was the right medium for her, she could definitely do what she liked with him. The first time she came here with him I was standing outside the front door shouting at the street kids. Well, and when I saw him arm in arm with Irma, I thought to myself, what sort of boy is she bringing home? He looks as if he’s never even been with a girl.’

  Lassehn flinches at the clarity of the woman’s vision.

  ‘I wouldn’t have given him another thought if she had only taken him to bed the once, maybe she wanted to find out how a boy like that … Well, you know what I mean. But even today I don’t understand why she married him, and I’d eat my hat if she didn’t have very special reasons of her own.’

  Lassehn holds his breath with tension, he’s aware that this strange woman knows far more about his wife than he does. Certain thoughts that often tried to raise a warning voice, but were always silenced, now take shape, but he hasn’t the time right now to look at them in detail, piece by piece, and connect them up with each other. The voice of this woman, a stranger who is really talking now, and who seems to want to get everything out of her system, leaves him no time, because with each new sentence she suggests new perspectives that had previously been completely hidden, and weren’t even vaguely present.

  ‘I must say, I felt sorry for the lad,’ Mrs Buschkamp continued, undeterred, ‘he must have put all his feelings into it, and when the eight days were over he probably had nothing to show for it but a pair of weak knees. You know, Mr Kempner, I’m a simple old woman, but I’ve got eyes in my head and there are things I don’t like. When I saw the two of them, it always seemed to me that Irma was just tolerating him and that was that. Yes, when she went with the others, with the Luftwaffe captain, she was a long way away from love, she fluttered her eyelashes at him, she wanted to get into his trousers …’

  Lassehn feels as if an ice-cold hand has clutched his heart and is pressing it with bony fingers. The woman’s voice comes from very far away, he can’t form a coherent thought, his brain is alternately filled to the brim with thoughts and then completely empty again. He stands up and looks out of the window, he feels he has turned pale to the roots of his hair, but he doesn’t want to let the woman see, he grits his teeth to resist the questions that are trying to spill out of him and manages to hold them back. All that issues from between his teeth is a hoarse croak, which he masks with an artificial cough.

  ‘Ah, yes, who knows where love is going to strike,’ Mrs Buschkamp goes on.

  Lassehn has now recovered himself to the extent that he can ask a question in a calm voice, but he is still looking away from her because he hasn’t got the muscles in his face under control. ‘Was Mrs Lassehn, or rather the then Miss Neidermeyer, engaged to the Luftwaffe captain?’, he asks.

  ‘Engaged? No, she never wore a ring,’ Mrs Buschkamp replies, ‘but she was head over heels in love with him, handsome fellow he was, a real man. You see, and I don’t understand this, a little while later she married for the exact opposite, a sweet boy that she had to train up. That’s why I’m forever saying that Irma must have had a special reason for finding another boy and even marrying him.’

  ‘How do you mean, Mrs Buschkamp?’ asks Lassehn, pressing his fingers tightly together to keep control of himself. ‘Did the Luftwaffe captain …’

  ‘… never came back, he just never came back,’ Mrs Buschkamp finishes his sentence. ‘There are plenty of pretty girls in Berlin, they all want a taste of love before a bomb falls on them. It’s not like in the old days, when girls did a lot of thinking beforehand. When they have to bear in mind that their wonderful life in Hitler’s Third Divine Reich could come to an end at any moment, they want to know what it’s like to be a woman, just once, even if it’s just a moment of pleasure between two air-raid warnings. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’

  Lassehn has turned round again and nods a few times to show his agreement, but right now he is not interested in general observations, his attention is focused on one very specific point, which he must
now address with a question, whatever the result. He summons all his inner strength and at the same time tries to maintain a look of indifference. The question chokes him, it takes his breath away, it wells up inside him like a geyser, nothing can hold it back.

  ‘And for what reasons, Mrs Buschkamp,’ he says very slowly, matter-of-factly, because that’s the best way he has of suppressing the insecurity in his voice, ‘do you think Miss Niedermeyer married Lassehn even though her heart was still full of love for someone else?’

  ‘You put that very nicely, young man,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘old Goethe couldn’t have put it better. Yes, sometimes you hear people say things, and then you find out it was Mrs Buschkamp as said it first. Here it comes, Mr Kempner, the next air-raid announcement.’

  The music that was slipping past Lassehn’s ear constantly and unnoticed is interrupted once again. Then the announcer’s oleaginous voice rings out: ‘Attention, attention, this is an air-raid announcement. The large combat unit reported as approaching north-west Germany is now heading towards the area around Hanover and Braunschweig. Combat unit over Lower Austria flying south. Another combat unit approaching West Germany. I repeat …’

  ‘Well, it’s nearly time,’ says Mrs Buschkamp. ‘Here, look out the window, the way they’re running to the bunker. If the radio says north-west Germany, they’re half mad, and when it says Hanover-Braunschweig, they go completely insane.’

  ‘And what do you do when the siren goes off?,’ Lassehn asks.

  ‘Corpses on leave, waiting for the undertaker,’ Mrs Buschkamp goes on. ‘How they can bear it …’

  ‘Well, they do bear it,’ Lassehn objects.

  ‘I’m an old woman,’ Mrs Buschkamp replies, ‘nothing throws me these days, and I don’t think my life’s all that valuable, but young women with little children who go to the pub all dolled up as if it was peacetime, they’re the ones who suffer. And believe it or not: the elegant ladies around here sense curse the Americans and the British for daring to drop bombs on us. The Nazis aren’t to blame, and the Führer will soon show them.’ Mrs Buschkamp breaks off. ‘There it goes, the cuckoo!’