The Last Shot (17 page)

Germany was spectacular. The fields shone with new crops. The sun had become hotter and lifted the smells of the farms along the way. New-born calves leaped around their mothers on the green pastures.

After Bayreuth, Bertha and Franz cycled into a flatter landscape, where the avenues and roads were alive with flies and bees and midges. Whenever they stopped, which was quite frequently, they often had to keep beating them off with their hands. Once again, they had slowed down the pace of their journey.

In the villages, they were given small portions of food to help them on. Mostly bread. They bartered some of their jam. There was never enough because of the shortages everywhere. They were always hungry. Bertha had lost weight. But she was brown and glowing from the sun.

They cycled for days. The more they cycled, the more the war and what happened to them in the Fichtel mountains receded into the past. They could even talk about it, occasionally, because talking helps you to forget, they thought. Occasionally, there was regret. Bertha thought it was wrong to have left the bodies uncovered in the woods. Maybe they should have been buried. Maybe somebody should have said a prayer over them. But she agreed that it was impossible, that they had had to leave quickly. And Franz kept reminding her that it was no crime, that it was an accident. They would be counted among the millions who died needlessly in the war.

It couldn’t be helped. They agreed on that. And every time they agreed not to speak about it ever again. Let’s not talk about that any more. It’s over.

The weather grew warmer all the time, and balmy. Sometimes it was oppressive. Sometimes Bertha’s navy dress clung to her
after the cycling. She wished she could wash or bathe somewhere. Her soap had almost run out. Only a thin wafer of it was left, the size of a host. There wasn’t a bar of soap to be found in the whole of Germany, she thought. They stayed out most nights. Once or twice, they were put up and allowed to sleep on the floor in the villages or the farm-houses along the way.

They were coming closer to Nuremberg all the time. There was no hurry now. Some of the days were so hot and clammy that it made travelling impossible. Without much food, proper sleep or any opportunity to wash, it was difficult to move much. And everywhere the air was still and thick. The country smells of cattle and grass and pigs and woodsmoke slowed things down even further. One morning a wind came up, a wonderful breeze swept across the fields, down from the Fichtel mountains which they had left far behind them.

They should have known. It was followed by a very sudden thunderstorm which caught them both out in the open, in the middle of Germany, without a house in sight, or even a tree to shelter under. They got soaked. They stopped along the road and Bertha made some attempts to cover them both with her russet coat. But they were already soaked. And the rain was ruthless.

It was a cool rain. They gave in to it and enjoyed the soaking. Bertha laughed. She hadn’t felt rain like this since she was a child. What they wanted to avoid became a luxury. Within twenty minutes, the sun was out again, raising the steam from the roads, drying everything almost as quickly as it had got wet.

They walked down a lane and stopped at a field, high with corn. Bertha had to change, or dry her clothes. She was left with no choice but to take her dress off to dry it. All her other dresses were too tight for cycling. She berated the fashion that made clothes impossible for walking and moving about in. But then, she was determined to keep her good dresses intact.

Franz found a secluded spot and flattened a square of young corn where Bertha could sit for a while under the sun and get dry. She sat in her underwear, in a white slip, her only good one
left. The sun was so strong that her hair was dry within minutes; so dry that she had to loosen strands that had gone rigid.

She felt the luxury of taking off her shoes, feeling the ribbed stems of corn under the soles of her feet. It was great to sit on anything other than a saddle. By now she hated cycling. She sat with her knees up, her hands holding her slip up over her knees. From where Franz stood, the sun illuminated her thighs through the slip; he tried not to look, keeping his eyes towards the road, to make sure nobody came. But the land was empty.

‘Franz,’ she called.

He turned, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. She was holding something towards him.

‘I want you to have this, Franz. For saving my life.’

‘Oh no. I couldn’t take that from you.’

‘No, you must. I insist. I want you to have it. I want you to carry it with you. I want you to know how grateful I am to you, no matter what happens to us now.’

‘But nothing will happen to us now.’

‘I insist. I want you to keep this.’

He took it. It would have offended her if he hadn’t. He sat beside her, thanked her, said there was nothing to thank him for because he would have done anything for her. She told him to put it away safely into his pocket and never to lose it. It was valuable. How much was impossible to say. The
Reichmark
was worth nothing. She said it was probably worth thousands of dollars. She was joking. They began to think in dollars as they kissed.

They kissed and laughed. After a while, Bertha sat up for a moment to tell Franz something serious.

‘I want you to know, Franz, that you were the only man with me, ever.’

She hesitated. She looked at the ground, at her feet on the straw stems of the corn.

‘I mean. There was nobody else…’

She had difficulty saying what she meant to say.

‘Franz,’ she said, gathering courage, ‘what I meant to say was
that you are the only man who has been inside me. Those men in the forest, they didn’t succeed. You rescued me in time.’

Bertha blushed and looked away. Franz drew her towards him.

‘Bertha, don’t think about it. Bertha,
mein Schatz.
Let’s not say any more about it.’

Bertha pushed him over. He lay on his back and pulled her down on top of him. It was easy to forget with Franz. He dissolved memories, evaporated them like the rain-water on the roads.

‘I’m not cycling another metre today,’ she said. ‘I refuse. I’m on strike.’

Bertha giggled. She felt it was time to laugh again, and began to tickle him. She kept thinking what all this must look like from above. She had an aerial view of herself in the corner of a rectangular field, her blue pleated dress thrown over a hedge with arms stretched out like a sunbather. Her own bottom in the air, covered only by Franz’s strong, bronzed hands on her white skin.

She was afraid of nothing.

It was Jürgen who called me for the funeral. He spoke very evenly as usual; his doctor’s voice.

‘I thought you would like to know,’ he said. ‘Alexander died yesterday evening. Anke and I would like it very much if you could come to the funeral.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’

I didn’t ask him any questions. I felt it wasn’t appropriate over the phone or at that time, unless Jürgen volunteered. He didn’t. I assumed he had gone through with his plan and was protecting me from any involvement.

‘He died peacefully?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Jürgen answered briefly. It came like a full admission. He would say no more. He gave me the time of the funeral and said he looked forward to seeing me.

I was on the Intercity once more, early in the morning, looking like a businessman. I don’t know what it is about funerals that is like a business. What I felt about Alexander was not the tragedy of his death, but his release from his pain. Maybe I thought of death as something like a trophy. I was sad for Anke, and sad for Jürgen. They were left with nothing.

I don’t know why I attract so many businessmen on these train journeys. On my way to Münster for the funeral, I got talking to another man in a suit, who might equally have been going to a funeral had he not told me he was going to a meeting in Osnabrück. He was in cosmetics. They were branching into the East in a big way. That was what his meeting was going to be about. He had been chosen to take on the East.

‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it. The Berlin Wall down. German unity. All this freedom. Europe is a new world.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I could hardly say otherwise, on the Intercity.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he kept saying. Telling me where his company was planning its strategy. He was open about his joy. He went further, perhaps, than he should have gone, telling me trade secrets, things you would say only to a friend or a complete stranger. I could have been a commercial spy. The great new spy stories are all going to shift from political espionage into commercial espionage. New le Carrés. Maybe the famous Glienecke Bridge in Berlin will now be used to swap managers, planners or chemical engineers under cover of darkness.

This businessman was so enthusiastic, he was almost drunk on progress. He talked about Berlin with great excitement.

‘Imagine,’ he said. ‘All the people who own property beside the Wall. Some of the worst districts up to now. And overnight…they became millionaires. And those people in the East, living in wooden houses along the outer border of West Berlin, their wooden shacks become priceless overnight, holiday homes. God knows what.’

He invited me for coffee in the
Speisewagen,
where we sat at the table opposite each other. The white tablecloth bore the Intercity mark. Then he let me in on a personal secret. He wasn’t going to stay with his firm. He was going to make it on his own. It was the big chance.

‘Oh no. I’m not going to let it go by,’ he said. ‘My place is going to be Prague. Prague is the big one. Wait till you see.’

He drew back. He wasn’t going to tell me what his scheme was. What exact business he had. in mind. But he said he had already been there five times since the Velvet Revolution. He was learning Czech like a maniac. He was waiting for the right moment.

Münster was pouring rain. I got a taxi and remembered how Anke said it was one of the rainiest towns in Germany. I went straight to the church. I was there to see Anke arriving with Jürgen, surrounded by relatives. I had met Anke’s mother before and I also recognized Jürgen’s parents. Anke seemed calm, less solemn than I had imagined, though she wore a black dress. Must have bought it for the day. I’d never seen it before.

The size of the small coffin got to everyone. People remarked on it with tragic expressions. I saw Anke and Jürgen both crying together; he was supporting her. It was the way I imagined Anke; as though she was only completely perfect when she was crying. It seemed as though she was crying for everyone.

I could think of nothing but Alexander. I thought about his fringe, about his laugh, the way he enjoyed the simplest of things like the sound of a spoon ringing in a cup. I thought of the time he ran into the living-room with the plunger; Jürgen first wanted to take it off him, then he let him have it, then he helped him stick it to the window and the three of us sat back and laughed helplessly at it.

Outside the church, the weather was very bad. The rain had let up a little, but it was windy and cold. There was no time to stand around for extended condolences after the service. Anke came over to me briefly and said, ‘Thank you for coming.’ I understood. What else could she say? But I’ve never felt as distanced from anyone as I did from Anke just then. I tried to say something back. What do you say? I found nothing. And anyhow, she was quickly whisked away into the black limousine. There were too many limousines. It looked like there was one for each mourner, almost.

I was offered a lift with one of the many relatives. Jürgen’s uncle, as it turned out. The car I got into was packed. The occupants spoke about Anke. They said she was a courageous woman. They kept saying how much they admired the couple for what they had done. They were not afraid of life. Everyone hoped life would treat them better now. There was an endless stream of cars; some relatives, most of them Jürgen’s patients or associates. The practice was closed for the day. Large notices were placed in the papers marking the death of their son.

I almost envied Jürgen and Anke sitting in the first car together, all alone, like a black wedding. This was Anke’s real wedding, I thought. A wedding of tears.

The cortège moved slowly past their house, carrying Alexander for the last time past his home, past his toys, his story
books, his bed, his special mug, his spinning top. It seemed strange to be travelling so slowly on that street; some of the neighbours coming out on to the pavement to bless themselves and lower their heads in respect. It felt ridiculous: I could have walked faster. The pace of a funeral. There are some things you can’t rush. Sometimes you are dragged past a set of images or symbols so slowly, you feel trapped. Unable to move.

At the crematorium, there was another scramble for shelter. It was lashing. Anke was rushed inside, somebody protecting her from the rain with a jacket. Another man made a hood out of his own jacket. I saw a woman holding a handbag up over her head. Everywhere, logistical conversations broke out; how to get from the car to the door of the crematorium in the fastest time. Anke was wet anyway. Her short hair was marked with blobs of rain. Her skin was pale. Her lips were red.

Alexander disappeared. It was very quiet. Somehow it went faster than I expected. Afterwards, I got to speak to Jürgen. He put his arm around me and said, ‘I’m glad you came. Above all people, I’m glad you could make it.’

I had another word with Anke too. She put her arms around me for a moment. It was a funeral hug. She seemed happier than I expected. It was as though all the mourners were desperately trying to keep her from being happy ever again. Anke said she was happy that I came. It made her feel good.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I’ll write to you. I’ll tell you everything.’

Before I was able to say a word, she was taken away. She was introduced to other relatives, more distant relatives. Everybody wanted to say a few words to the bereaved mother. Everybody wanted to belong to such a beautiful death, such a beautiful sad mother. Such remarkable sadness. She looked spectacular in grief.

This was Anke’s real wedding. This was where I would have to say goodbye.