The Lieutenant’s Lover (14 page)

‘No.’

‘Well?’

‘I’m waiting for … something different.’

‘I see. Have you been waiting long?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And will you have to wait much longer?’

The girl shrugged. She shrugged by lifting her shoulders so high that they touched her ears. She was famished, of course, you could hardly find any Berliner who wasn’t, and her bony shoulders made her look like an elf from a German fairy story.

Misha laughed. ‘Same here. Always waiting, eh?’

‘No, not always. I didn’t say always.’ The girl corrected him, then pulled off her shoe. ‘It’s broken. Can you mend it, please?’

The shoe wasn’t in bad condition, but the buckle was broken. Misha went around to the back of the schoolroom, where there were some GIs brewing coffee. Misha borrowed some tools, and a length of wire and repaired the buckle. The girl was a war-orphan, her father killed in Italy, her mother killed just three months back in an Allied air attack. She was theoretically in the care of an UNRRA orphanage, but she didn’t seem very concerned about playing truant. Misha finished mending the buckle, then noticed that the shoes were too big, so he padded out the toes with newspaper until they fitted.

‘There!’

‘Thank you.’

‘You haven’t told me your name.’

‘You haven’t told me yours.’

‘I’m Misha,’ he said, wondering at himself. It was years since he’d given his name in the Russian way, let alone the informal nickname that had only ever been used by his nearest friends and family – plus, of course, by Tonya. ‘Misha Malevich.’

‘Misha,’ said the girl, considering it. ‘Good. That’s a good name. I’m Rosa.’

‘That’s a good name too.’

‘Because I’m like a rose.’

‘Because you are.’

By this time, a queue had begun to form behind Misha and the door of the schoolhouse was abruptly thrown open by a fat-necked Yankee major, smelling of chewing gum and tobacco.

‘OK, buddies,’ he said in English, before adding in German, ‘let’s get moving this morning, one at a time, who’s first?’

Misha was. He was shown into an interview room, a former classroom. The fat-necked major sat on the teacher’s dais, with a young lieutenant beside him to take notes. Misha had to sit on a narrow wooden chair in the middle of the bare floor.

Things didn’t go well. The problems started because Misha didn’t have a rations book.

‘How come?’ said the major. He had learned German at school and spoke it with a solidly American accent, as though it were his patriotic duty to break the spirit of every foreign word that came his way. ‘The Russkies had got rations books sorted within two weeks.’

‘I didn’t want to collect one from the Russians.’

‘Why? You say you’re a German citizen, but you just gave your name here as Malevich. You a Hiwi?’

A Hiwi, short for
Hilfsfreiwillige
or volunteer helpers, was the name given to Soviet citizens who had volunteered for the German
Wehrmacht
and fought against their countrymen. Most Hiwis had already either fled to the west or killed themselves, but some still lingered. It was certain death for any Hiwi to be returned to the Red Army, but some Allied officers did so anyway.

‘No. No, I’m not. As I say, I’m a German citizen. I have been for almost two decades.’

‘Then you should have got your rations book from Ivan, shouldn’t you? If you’re not a Hiwi, that is.’

‘I left Russia twenty-four years ago. Escaped, really. I was the wrong class. It was dangerous for me there.’

‘Still, if you’re a German citizen, why wouldn’t you want to collect rations? It don’t look as though you’ve been eating too well to me. Address?’

‘Nowhere you could quite call an address, really. I live in the business I used to own; what’s left of it, that is.’

‘What type of business?’

‘We manufactured marine pumping equipment.’

‘Civil or military?’

Misha shrugged. ‘Either. Both. The pumps were the same.’

‘Right, sure. That’s part of the armaments industry all right. You done a
Fragebogen?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘A
Fragebogen
, questionnaire. Part of the denazification process.’

‘Denazification? I had a Jewish wife, a Jewish business partner. I spent the war in concentration camps.’

The major looked disgusted and muttered something in English to the lieutenant. Misha spoke almost no English and couldn’t follow it.

‘Why do you want to move interzonally, anyhow? If you’re a German citizen, then you have a duty to work as directed by the occupation authorities. It’s not just a question of going wherever the hell you feel like.’

Misha tried to explain. He had relatives in Canada. The Canadian consulate here in Berlin had been of the view that an emigration application might be favourably received, but he’d have to present himself in person to the appropriate bureau down in Munich. Hence the need for an interzonal movement pass, authorised by the American Military Government.

‘Jeez,’ said the major, looking at the letter from the Canadian consul. ‘You know, this don’t mean a lot to us. If you’re a German citizen, then you really belong here. If you’re a Russian, then you ought to sort out your problems with your own folk. Still… Canada Jeez… Listen, we need you to fill out a full
Fragebogen
. Then submit that to the denazification people. Then they’ll check it out. If that’s all OK, come back to us for a movement pass. Oh yes, and get yourself a rations book. What the hell do you think Ivan’s going to do? Eat you?’

That was the interview over.

Misha collected the papers he’d brought with him, and went away with more forms to be filled out, more addresses to traipse to, more bureaucrats to deal with. But it had been neither better nor worse than he’d expected. He walked outside into the sunshine and found the little girl from earlier; still on her wooden bench.

‘Still waiting, Rosa?’ he said to the girl.

‘Um… I’m not sure.’

‘You aren’t sure? You still haven’t told me what you’re waiting for.’

‘No.’

She stared at him with great concentration as though there were some matter it was vital to establish accurately.

‘Well? If you tell me, I might be able to help.’

‘Yes, maybe… Can you cook?’

Misha laughed. ‘Only when I have food, little
Roseknospe,’
he said, using the word for rosebud.

‘Can you sew?’

‘Not very well. Why? What are you waiting for?’

She frowned as though the answer should be obvious. ‘I’m waiting for my new mummy and daddy, of course.’

Misha heard her words and became suddenly grave himself. For the first time in their conversation, he gave her his full attention, kneeling down so his face was on a level with hers.

‘Before I went into that office, you said you were waiting. When I came out, you said you weren’t sure if you were waiting any more.’

‘I thought my new mummy and daddy would come both at the same time. But it doesn’t have to be like that, does it?’

‘No, little
Knospe.’

‘Well then.’

‘Well then, what?’

‘Well then, that means I’m not waiting any more.’

‘Does it now?’ said Misha softly.

He stood up and took her tiny hand in his big one. He could stay in Berlin and accept the responsibility that Rosa seemed keen to thrust on him. Or he could emigrate to join his family in Canada. There was no way he could do both. His heart told him to stay. He had no particular desire to go to Canada, it was only that there was nothing left for him in Europe. But his heart hadn’t done him much good in his life so far. It was time for his head to rule. He knew what he had to do, and he fully intended to do it.

‘I’m sorry, little one, but I’m afraid I can’t help.’

Meanwhile, as Misha and Rosa were talking in the sunlight, inside the building the major and the lieutenant were arguing.

‘The guy’s Russian,’ complained the major, shoving another stick of gum into his mouth as he spoke. ‘He looks Russian. He’s got a Russian name. He admits he was raised there. So he’s Russian. Why the hell should we be bothering with him? Ivan’s guy, Ivan’s problem.’

The lieutenant protested. ‘If his story’s true, it might be dangerous for him.’

‘Dangerous? Why the hell would it be dangerous? The guy left twenty-five years back. And if he’s a Hiwi…’

‘The regulations say—’

‘The hell with the regulations. How would you feel if you found an American fighting for the Krauts? You’d pretty much want to beat the heck out of him too.’

‘I guess…’

‘Yah! His story don’t add up. Either he’s a German, in which case there’s no reason for him not to have a rations book. Or he’s a Hiwi, in which case he belongs to the Russkies.’

‘Yes, sir, only—’

‘Only nothing. I bet we never see him again. Did you see his face when I told him we’d need him to disclose all his past Nazi affiliations? I bet he’s a Nazi like all the rest of them. Jewish wife, my ass! Send his details around to Ivan. Name, address. Known facts. That sort of thing. Then Ivan can figure out what to do.’

‘You want me to disclose his identity to the Soviets?’ The lieutenant’s tone was downright incredulous; insubordinate. The major glared at him and the youngster coloured. ‘Yes, sir, sure thing. I guess they’re part of the team now. Sure.’

The lieutenant went to sort things out, while the major went to the window and stared gloomily out.

The queue had lengthened: a collection of raggedy scarecrows with famished faces. ‘Jeez,’ commented the major, which was his way of reflecting on the astonishing fact that this same collection of human beings had come so close to defeating the greatest military powers in the world. Then his gaze traversed sideways and he saw something else: the Russian was still there, talking to a little blond girl in plaits. The major rolled his gum into a ball and stuck it in the pouch made by his lower lip against his gum.

‘Goddamn Nazis,’ he muttered.

A golden evening was decaying into night. Here in ruined Berlin, darkness always seemed to leak upwards from the burned-out buildings, spreading first to the streets, then upwards to the sky. It was the most dangerous time of day, when the city turned itself over to its darker elements: the black-marketeers and the prostitutes, drunken Red Army men and the speeding cars of the NKVD.

Tonya made her way across town, up the Prenzlauer Allee, walking carefully in the thickening dark. A car passed, too close, with a blare of headlamps and engine roar. Tonya was forced to jump aside and managed to graze herself on a heap of rubble. She thought she heard men laughing as the car screamed away, but she couldn’t be sure.

Then she heard something else.

Down a side street, a woman was crying and, in between sobs, calling for help. Tonya hesitated. Of her fellow translators, almost all were either Party members themselves or married to a Party member. Those who, like Tonya, had served time in the Gulag, were rare and the scent of suspicion never quite left them. Few of the other translators would even speak to her socially. Though Tonya didn’t mind the isolation, she lived in fear that she would somehow betray herself or be denounced. Anything might trigger it. She knew perfectly well that there didn’t have to be any basis in truth for the accusation. So she was careful not to offend, to follow the Party line, to stay inconspicuous. And helping a German woman was not quite inconspicuous.

Then the cry for help came again. It was a young voice, almost girlish. Tonya wanted to walk on, but then the thought of her own two daughters came irresistibly into her head. The oldest of the pair would be just nineteen now. Before Tonya could think further, she found herself running and stumbling over the rubble heaps towards the darkness of the little alley.

The woman heard her coming and stopped crying.

‘Thank God. Who are you? I can’t walk.’

Tonya peered forwards, saw a patch of something gleaming white in the surrounding gloom, and made her way towards it. The patch resolved itself into a young woman, lying propped up against a ruined wall.

‘The bastards hurt my ankle,’ she said.

Tonya looked, but didn’t enquire. Almost certainly, the woman had been raped. Almost certainly, she had been raped by a Russian – the Americans and British were generally rich enough in cigarettes or chocolate to get what they wanted without force.

‘Let me help you home,’ said Tonya.

‘Thank you.’

The woman struggled to her feet and put one arm around Tonya.

‘Where to?’

‘Just up there. I only came out to get water.’

They went a little way, the woman hopping with her good leg, Tonya supporting her other side.

‘You’re Russian,’ said the woman, not quite as an accusation, but almost.

Tonya was about to do the sensible thing, to mutter what platitude the Party would want her to say, something about German bandits dressed in Red Army uniforms, but she couldn’t bring herself to.