Secret Father (17 page)

In this conversation, the woman accepted the kibitzing of the timid male cleric beside her. He seemed to have a decent English vocabulary but no knowledge of sentences. The woman handed Ulrich a number of German-language brochures, explaining each one as well as she could. Ulrich was masterful as a mulish but well-meaning American hayseed, vacantly tugging at his beard.
Ah be danged.
I sensed the fun he was having with his impersonation. Indeed, the fun was in the subterfuge, which made me think of something else. Ulrich von Neuhaus—Herr Independence—was marking our arrival in the espionage swamp of Berlin by enacting a drama that had everything to do with his stepfather's function, in a phrase of a then current book by J. Edgar Hoover, as a "master of deceit." What a thrill to join him in it. Kit, too, with her talk of dipping snuff.

When the sister spread out a map of the city on the desk, Ulrich leaned over it. Kit and I stepped closer, each to one side of our friend. I could feel myself being drawn into the game, even if I hadn't a clue yet about its rules or even how victory and defeat were defined. Enough to observe the tremor in the woman's finger as she traced what I took to be the dividing border between the Allied and Soviet sectors. I saw the serpentine lines of a river and its offshoot canals, and I picked up the words "Zoo" and "Tiergarten" and the fan shape of the railroad tracks here at the station. Otherwise, the map was as incomprehensible as the city outside.

"Where?" Ulrich asked, then placed the tip of his forefinger on the map next to where the woman was pointing. "Oh, that's great," he said in teenage American. "Really great!" Then to Kit and me, feigning less, he said, "The church runs a youth hostel not far away."

The male cleric, his mouth a slit, muttered in German, something Kit translated with an urgency that surprised me. "Male and female dorms," she said. And she met the clergyman's cold stare, his stare at her. She lowered her voice, but all could hear when she declared, "We're not splitting up, guys. I am not spending the night someplace by myself." Having said this, she stepped around Ulrich to be between us—or was it to be next to me? Did she want me to put my arm around her? I saw tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip, and nearly did.

Ulrich was still leaning over the map, letting his finger move across it. "Where are the May Day celebrations going to be?"

Again the male cleric muttered to the woman, who said, "What means you?"

"May Day," Ulrich answered. "Tomorrow. Workers' Day."

The sister shook her head slowly, but with such an air of disapproval that I just wanted to thank them and move on. Ulrich, though, raised his bright face from the map, all innocence. "There's a big parade," he told her, as if defining the circus. "And a huge street meeting. The parade in the East, the meeting in the West. You know this, right?"

"We do not know," the man said emphatically, his first full sentence in English.

"That's fine," I put in. I took Ulrich's elbow, pulling him. "Thanks a lot," I said. "Let's go, Rick."

He looked at me, then back at the pair of evangelicals, making a decision. Nodding, he collected the brochures she had given him. The woman carefully folded the map, and when Ulrich said, in a caricature of himself, "Ah surely do appreciate your many kindnesses," she handed it to him.

We backed away, each with a shoulder bag, Ulrich with his fistful of folders. The religious people watched us, but others were watching us, too, in that drab sea of immigrants and refugees. I realized how conspicuous we were in our bright American clothing, Ulrich bearded and long-haired, Kit pert and sexy, me with my gimpy lurch. To the Berliners we must have seemed like the trio on the road to Oz. Judy Garland was a star here, wasn't she?

We crossed into a second, equally crowded hall and found places at a standup
Bierstube.
Kit insisted on paying for our beers. She untied her bandana, into which she had folded several German bills. Ulrich and I fought her offfor a minute, then we each threw in some money. Kit had made her point, however. She was no one's date.

We claimed one of the several raised tables for ourselves and drank our beer. Kit said, "I mean it, I'm not sleeping in some room full of strangers or off by myself."

I said, "What if we just go to the high school?"

Ulrich looked at me with surprise. "What?"

"The American high school, General Patton. They have a dorm. We could find some kids who'd let us in, let us have a couch or something."

"The American high school?" Ulrich used my inflection, mocking me.

"It's what you said before."

"That was the
story,
Michael."

"But it sounded good. What the hell, we could do worse than hooking up with kids like us."

"Monty, Monty," Ulrich said, "there
are
no kids like us. We are the
Edelweisspiraten.
"

"The what?"

Kit translated, "Edelweiss pirates." To Ulrich she said, with an air of
cut the shit,
"Which is what?"

"Anti-Soviet youth groups, when I was living here before. I was a child, but you remember something called the
Edelweisspiraten.
Heroes of resistance after the war." Ulrich grinned, but oddly, given what he was saying. "All eliminated by the Stasi and the KGB."

"That's just what I mean," I said, looking at the bullet-pocked wall. "I vote we go to the high school."

"What, for the sock hop?" Ulrich looked at Kit, appealing. "This is goddamn Berlin!"

Kit refused to look at him. She raised her glass of beer to her mouth and hid behind it. I sensed how much she wanted not to choose between us, which made me want to force her to. "What do you say, Kit?"

"I only said I didn't want to sleep in some dorm for females, offby myself with a bunch of strangers. I don't rightly see why we have to fight about it." The threat of dark weather moving in on us again upset her.

I felt guilty for pressing the point, so I playfully punched Ulrich's arm. "And I didn't say anything about a fucking sock hop, Ulrich."

"I think you want to be calling me Rick."

"Oh, so now your name is Healy, not Casanova?" But it was not smart to mock him for his impulse to pass as pure American. Pure American would keep us safe. "Look, guys," I said, "we need a base. A place to leave our bags before heading out. A place that's safe."

"Youth hostels are safe," Ulrich said.

"But you heard Kit. That won't work for her."

"Hey, don't make me the issue between you two."

I glanced at her, ready to say, You
are
the issue. But just then my eye went past her to a man at an adjacent counter. He had his beer, but what he seemed interested in was us. Meeting my quizzical stare, he smiled. He raised the glass, toasting me. He sipped without lowering his gaze.

"Jesus," I muttered, looking down. "That guy's watching us."

Kit snapped off a look, but Ulrich calmly picked up his glass. "No problem," he said. "Be cool."

I looked again. The man was still smiling at me, his teeth bright in the curl of his mouth. He was short, his dark hair in a crew cut. He wore a rumpled tan suit, a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His nose was red, his eyes were glassy, he looked drunk. Hence the smile, which suddenly seemed more goofy than sinister. He downed the last swallow of beer and smacked his lips happily, then moved toward us.

"He's coming," I whispered.

Ulrich turned toward the man as he joined us. He claimed a corner of our standup counter by putting his empty beer glass down. Kit shifted toward me.

"Good evening, friends," he said. "Perhaps it is the case that I can be help to you." His smile now seemed real, and he appeared to be not much older than we were. He was feeling no pain, but he wasn't drunk. "Here in Berlin," he went on, "we must look to help each other. It is the only way. Welcome to Berlin." And again he raised his glass.

So did we, draining them, which prompted the man to go back to the serving window for more. While he was gone, Ulrich said again, "Be cool." We had come for the adventure, right? Here it was.

The man returned with a tray, four beers and four cardboard coasters. He served them around. When he raised his glass, we clinked with him. "To a death in Berlin," he said.

"What?" Kit blurted.

"A traditional toast," the man said, grinning. "Every Berliner's fondest wish. A death in Berlin—in the distant future, not tonight."

"A body hopes not," Kit said, and we all laughed.

"I am Josef Tramm," he said. "I please to make your meeting."

Something told me, as we introduced ourselves, each shaking his hand, that his awkward syntax was deliberate, a bit of the buffoon to put us at ease. I liked that he was so short; he had to look up at me.

"American students, I think, yes?"

"That's right," Ulrich said. "From Wiesbaden." Again that
w.
"Our fathers are in the Air Force. The U.S. Air Force."

Josef raised his glass again. "Ah, the Air Force. We in Berlin love the American Air Force. In 1948 the airlift saved us."

Ulrich touched his glass to Tramm's. "To the airlift," Ulrich said with a cocky grin. "When the same planes that had destroyed Berlin came back to save it."

Jesus, I thought, Ulrich and his damn ironies. I vastly preferred the mode of innocents abroad.
Not innocent of sin, but sinning in innocence.
I watched the German to see what he would make of Ulrich's curve.

"A point well made," said Tramm. "But Berlin suffered far more from the Russian shelling than from American and British bombing. And after the shelling, the Cossack pillaging, which is not forgotten, even in the East."

Tramm pulled a half-smoked stub of a cigarette from somewhere in his clothing. Cupping his hands around a flame, he bent to light it, then waved the match out. "To people my age," he continued, "and I was twelve during the airlift, the Americans were the 'chocolate bombardiers,' that is all. That is why we greet you warmly."

"What are you, the welcome committee?" Ulrich seemed as relaxed as Tramm.

Tramm grinned. "In Berlin there are many welcome committees. You were already greeted by the church people."

That was in the other hall. Had he been watching us there?

"I greet you on behalf of workers. I am of the
Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund
— the DGB, the trade union council. My job is to welcome workers arriving in Berlin, which naturally is to recruit them—industrial workers, electricians, carpenters, masons. We are, you say,
desperate
for labor here. My job is to—" He put the butt of his cigarette between his lips, squinting at the smoke. The stub was so short it must have been hot to his flesh. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a stack of cards, dealing one to each of us. "Here is a pass for meals and, you say, accommodation at the Free Workers' Reception Hall. Clean beds. Good food. The DGB offers support in finding jobs and houses, and protects the worker in all matters having to do with conditions and wages." A mission statement.

"We're not looking for jobs," Kit said. "We're just here for the weekend."

"Of course, of course. You are Americans. There is no question of jobs. But you are welcome. You are welcome at the Workers' Hall."

"Men and women together?" Kit asked.

"Are you speaking of yourself?"

"Yes."

"To remain with your friends?"

"Yes."

"That can be arranged. We have facilities for senior workers, what you call, I believe, VIP. It pleases me to welcome the sons and daughter of the chocolate bombardiers."

Ulrich, eyeing the card, surprised me by saying, "I have memories of the airlift."

I watched him carefully. Was he going to tell the truth? His mother looking up from her pile of rubble at the gleaming American planes, his own first taste of chocolate? But by 1948, wasn't she a translator already, working for us? For Healy?

"My father," he said simply, "was one of those Air Force pilots flying into Berlin."

"
Voilä!
" Tramm said, clinking glasses again. "
Prost!
"

What Ulrich said may have been true, in a way—of his stepfather, not his father—but still, the effect of his statement was one of deceit. His ability to lie amazed me. The complexities hinted at only moments before, the airlift reversing the air assault, were gone now, and Tramm seemed thoroughly convinced. America the eternal friend of Germany; Germany a nation solely of virtue—West Germany, of course.

Tramm was about to put his cigarette out in a tin ashtray when Ulrich offered him his pack of Luckies. Tramm took one and lit it from the stub.

For my part, I was stuck on the questions of whether he'd been watching us in the other hall, of what he'd heard us say to one another in this one. "Herr Tramm," I asked casually, "you speak English very well. How is that?"

He shrugged. "West Berlin, my friend. English is a second language here. You will find this. In the East, naturally, it is Russian."

"You speak Russian?"

"No. I myself only English. Russian in the East. Not here. And you?
Sie sprechen Deutsch, ja?
"

"Hardly any," I said. Kit and Ulrich were studying their beers.

"But I heard you speak quite well," Tramm said, "of the
Edelweisspiraten.
"

"That was me," Ulrich said. He met Tramm's eyes and held them.

After a moment, Tramm asked, "
Wie heissen Sie?
"

"Rick Healy," Ulrich answered, and he offered his hand, which Tramm shook, saying, "
Sehr angenehm.
"

I introduced myself, then Kit did, calling herself Katharine. Tramm bowed and gave each of us a quick handshake, although Kit's hand he held a moment longer. "There is much to see in Berlin,
Fräulein.
I would be honored to show—the Kurfürstendamm, Charlottenburg, McNair Barracks where the Americans live, the American high school. You say 'high school,' no? You would like to see this?"

I exchanged a worried glance with Ulrich: Did this guy know we talked about the high school?

But Tramm was smiling easily at Kit, still holding her hand. "Your bag," he said, indicating the overnight bag on her shoulder.
WHS
was emblazoned above the silhouette of an Indian and the word "Warriors." "You three are at an American high school, no?"