Lehrter Station (13 page)

It occurred to her that she had never felt this need before – imagination had been enough. Perhaps that was the point – what had happened over the last few years was literally unimaginable. And it would need films like this to make it less so. Movies like this really mattered, unlike most she had made.

This thought had only just crossed her mind when Lothar Kuhnert appeared at her side. ‘I’m afraid we have a problem,’ were his first upsetting words. ‘The British have refused your
Spruchkammer
certification.’

‘Oh no. Why, for heaven’s sake?’

‘A lot of nonsense about you playing “iconic Nazi roles”, whatever than means. The real reason is that the Americans have insisted.’

‘What in heaven’s name have I done to upset them?’

‘They’re adopting a harder line towards ex-Nazis, and…’

‘I wasn’t a Nazi!’

‘We know that. But some Americans don’t understand that it was possible to do well in the Third Reich without being one.’

‘Oh God! Doesn’t the fact that the Gestapo was hunting me for four years make any difference?’

‘It should. It will. Just leave it with me.’ He sighed. ‘The good news is that there’s no urgency. They’re still investigating Ernst, and there’ll probably be others. But we’ll get this film made, one way or another.’

‘We should,’ Effi told him. ‘It’s worth making.’

It was almost dark when Russell found himself outside Otto Pappenheim’s door in the Solinger Strasse apartment block. Again there was no answer to his knock, but this time a different neighbour emerged. Three
cigarettes – a gross overpayment, as Russell later discovered – was enough to overcome any reluctance he had about disclosing Otto’s place of work. It was a nightclub on the Ku’damm called, suitably enough,
Die Honig-falle.
The Honey Trap.

Outside it was growing dark. He walked south, took the temporary walkway across the foul-smelling Spree, and skirted the western perimeter of the silenced zoo. Feeling hungry, he stopped for a sandwich at the Zoo Station buffet and idly leafed through a newspaper that someone had quite understandably left behind. There was nothing in it, save for sundry do-it-yourself tips for the average Berlin householder circa 1945 – ‘how to repair a roof without tiles,’ ‘how to mend a wall without bricks’ – and hundreds of messages from people seeking either long-lost relatives and friends or strangers willing to share their body-heat.

There were neon lights burning on the Ku’damm, but not that many by pre-war standards. There were British soldiers on the pavements, and almost as many German girls, but the night was obviously young. According to Thomas, bus-loads of girls from the Soviet sector – where payment of any kind could rarely be taken for granted – arrived around mid-evening.

The Honey Trap was on the northern side, in the basement of a half-demolished building that Russell vaguely remembered as a music school. The two bouncers guarding the top of the steps looked barely out of their teens, and managed to convey the impression that only their dates of birth had prevented them joining the Nazis.

They eyed Russell with professional suspicion, but relaxed when he mentioned Otto Pappenheim. ‘He’ll be in the office at the back,’ one said, in a tone suggesting surprise that anyone wanted to see him. Walking down the steps, it occurred to Russell that mention of his quarry’s name had not yet produced a single positive reaction.

The barely-lit basement room smelt of stale beer, cigarette smoke and sweat. A barman gestured him through to the room at the rear, where another man was seated at a small and rickety-looking table, his head bent over an accounts ledger. As he looked up, Russell saw dark hair, dark
eyes, and features sharp enough to invite comparisons with rodents. The man was probably in his thirties, which was about right for Rosa’s father, but he bore little resemblance to the Nazi stereotype of a Jew. But then few Jews did. ‘Otto Pappenheim?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ the man replied after only the slightest of hesitations. The eyes were suspicious, but what Jew’s eyes wouldn’t be after the last twelve years?

‘I’m looking for someone of that name,’ Russell said, looking round for something to sit on. There was nothing.

‘Why? Who are you?’

‘My name’s John Russell. I’m not with the police or anything like that – I’m just an ordinary citizen.’

‘Okay,’ the man said almost cheerfully. The news that Russell had no connection to the authorities seemed something of a relief.

‘I’m looking for an Otto Pappenheim who left a wife and daughter early in the war, most likely through no choice of his own. His wife’s name was Ursel, and they had a daughter name Rosa…’

‘I never had a daughter,’ the man said. ‘And my wife died in a camp. We had no children. Thank God,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

‘No, it’s over.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We have to live in the present now.’

‘Of course. But have you ever run across anyone else with the same name?’

‘No. There are such men, I’m sure, but I have never met one.’

Russell could think of nothing else to ask. He thanked the man and walked back towards the front. Passing through the sparsely populated bar, he realised he fancied a drink.

‘What are you paying with?’ was the barman’s first question.

‘What do you take?’

‘What do you have?’

‘US dollars.’

‘They’ll do.’

‘And what else?’ Russell asked as his beer was poured.

‘Pounds. Cigarettes. There’s a list of exchange rates on the wall over there.’

Russell took a first sip and examined the sign. 3 British Woodbines were worth 1 American Pall Mall, and both were listed in their cash dollar equivalents. ‘What about German currency?’ he asked.

The barman laughed and turned away.

Russell found himself a table, sat down, and surveyed the room. The decor was as minimal as the lighting, and no attempt had been made to disguise the myriad cracks in the ceiling. A small dance floor lay between the sea of closely packed tables and a narrow, curtainless stage.

‘John Russell,’ a surprised voice exclaimed beside him.

‘Irma,’ he said, smiling and standing to embrace her. They had met in pre-war days, when she and Effi had been in the same musical. Hardly a highlight of Effi’s career,
Barbarossa
had marked a real low for Irma Wocz, who had first earned fame as a cabaret artist in pre-Nazi Berlin. She had to be in her mid-forties, but the dark eyes were still challenging, the full mouth still inviting, and the shining brunette hair would have convinced anyone who hadn’t last seen her as a blonde. Her figure, or what Russell could see of it inside the buttoned coat, still had curves to spare. ‘Please, join me,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’

‘I certainly will,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘But don’t think of paying for it. I work here.’ She raised a hand to get the barman’s attention, and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. ‘Where have you been since the shit hit the fan?’ she asked. ‘Someone showed me your picture in the papers,’ she explained. ‘After your little disagreement with our late lamented leader.’

Russell laughed. ‘We’ve been in England the last few months.’

‘You had the sense to stick with Effi?’

‘Yes, she’s here too. She’s making a movie with some people at the old
Reichskulturkammer
.’

She took her drink from the barman, and halved it in one gulp. ‘The comrades? That’s a sensible move. Once the Americans get bored and go home, they’ll be running everything.’

‘You think they will? Get bored, I mean.’

Irma shrugged. ‘Once they’ve fucked every girl in Berlin.’

‘You’re singing again?’

‘You could call it that.’ She smiled and emptied her glass. ‘I’m certainly getting too old to fuck for a living. Look, you and Effi should come one evening, for old time’s sake. We’re open every day but Monday. One on the house?’ she asked him, waving her own glass at the barman.

‘No, thanks. I haven’t eaten yet.’

‘Now there’s an overrated pastime. If there’s one thing we can thank the Führer for, it’s teaching us how to live with hunger. Ah,’ she added, looking Russell’s shoulder, ‘here comes the boss.’

He turned to see a man walking towards them.

‘Good evening, Herr Geruschke,’ she said in greeting. He was around Russell’s age, the short side of medium height, with dark eyes and thick charcoal-coloured hair that was beginning to recede. He was smartly dressed in a dark grey suit, stiff-collared shirt, jazzy tie and shining brogues.

The smile, Russell noticed, did not extend to the eyes.

‘Irma,’ he said with the slightest of bows. He watched the barman replace her empty glass with a full one, and looked enquiringly at Russell.

‘This is an old friend,’ she explained. ‘John Russell. He lived in Berlin before the war.’

‘Are you English?’ Geruschke asked with a smile.

‘I am,’ Russell said. It was simpler than explaining his official pedigree as an American.

‘We have many English customers,’ Geruschke said. ‘But few are here by choice. In Berlin, that is.’

‘I’m just here for a visit,’ Russell told him. ‘Seeing old friends, that sort of thing.’ Something about the man gave him the creeps.

‘His girlfriend’s Effi Koenen,’ Irma volunteered. ‘She’s here to make a movie for the comrades.’

‘An actress? I haven’t heard the name, but then I never go to films.’ He turned back to Irma, whose second glass was almost empty. ‘Try not
to get drunk before you perform,’ he told her sharply. ‘Herr Russell,’ he added, taking his leave with a slight nod and the faintest clicking of heels. As he walked away Russell found himself wondering what the man had been doing for the last twelve years. A question you could ask of any prosperous survivor.

‘He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?’ Irma muttered. ‘But he pays well.’

‘What’s his first name?’

‘Rudolf, but I’ve never heard anyone use it.’

The club was slowly filling up. Three British soldiers had just come in with four young girls, and a good-natured dispute about exchange rates was underway at the bar. On the stage a musician had removed his shining saxophone from its case, and was busy replacing its reed.

‘Do you know Otto Pappenheim?’ Russell asked Irma.

‘The accountant?’ I know him well enough to ignore him.’

Russell laughed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Oh nothing, I suppose. He’s one of Geruschke’s Jews. He says he likes to help them get back on their feet, which is fair enough. He could be a bit choosier, though. I mean, the Jews have their quota of low-lifes, just like everyone else. And in my experience, being persecuted rarely turns people into saints. Turns them into shits as often as not.’

‘You could be right,’ Russell agreed. It was beginning to seem that post-war Berlin – indeed, the whole damn post-war world – was hellbent on meeting his worst expectations.

Back at the house, he found Thomas and Effi sitting on either side of the kitchen table. They both looked less than happy. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked. ‘Is Leon all right?’

‘He’s fine,’ Effi said, raising a smile.

‘We’ve just had what passes for a normal day in Berlin,’ Thomas said wryly. ‘The Russians have been obstructing me, and the Americans have been obstructing Effi.’

‘How so?’

Effi told him what Kuhnert had told her.

‘What’s it do with the Americans?’ Russell wanted to know.

‘Who knows? But anyway, Kuhnert thinks he can sort it out. It’s just left a sour taste, that’s all.’

‘I’m not surprised, after all you went through. It must be really upsetting.’

‘It is,’ Effi agreed. But not just for those reasons, she thought. Part of her dismay came from recognising the grain of truth in the accusations against her. She
had
played the storm trooper’s widow. She
had
played the proud Nazi mother.

Russell put an arm around her shoulder. ‘And what have the Russians been doing to you?’ he asked Thomas.

‘Oh, just making life difficult. They don’t understand business. They don’t like business. I think they believe deep down that business is like some fast-growing weed, that if they leave it alone it’ll grow so fast that they’ll never get rid of it.’

‘Couldn’t you relocate to one of the Western zones? There’s certainly no shortage of land for development.’

‘I’ve thought about it. Trouble is, if I set a move in motion the Russians will just confiscate my machinery. And if I could somehow persuade them not to, who knows how welcoming the Americans would be? One of the Soviet officials took me aside today, and warned me again how seriously the Americans would take my hobnobbing with Nazis during the war. And if he was right – if the Americans really are intent on giving me a hard time – then I’m better off staying where I am. At least the Russians let me work.’ He stood up. ‘But enough. I’m hungry, and Effi tells me you two have a dinner date.’

‘God yes,’ Russell said. He’d completely forgotten about Ali’s invitation.

‘And we should be going,’ Effi said, looking at her watch. She ducked out from under Russell’s arm. ‘And you can tell me whose perfume you’re wearing on the way.’

Outside the streets were a lot darker than Russell remembered from pre-war days, but brighter than they had been in the blackout. The sky seemed to be clearing, and the moon’s occasional appearances lent the ruins an aura of ghostly beauty.

He told Effi about his meeting with Irma, and the reason he’d been at the night club. When he let slip that he’d known about Otto since the previous day she gave him an exasperated look. ‘Don’t keep me in the dark,’ she said. ‘I know you mean well, but I’d rather know. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘And how was Irma?’

‘The same as ever. If not more so.’

Effi laughed. ‘We must go and see her perform.’

They reached Hufelandstrasse, and climbed the stairs to Ali’s door. A wonderful aroma was waiting inside, and the dinner that Ali served up a few minutes later offered ample proof of the culinary skills she’d learnt from her mother. And, as she herself was quick to point out, of the extra rations they received as Jews.