The Lieutenant’s Lover (26 page)

The woman, walking fast, was beginning to jink right, as though intending to skirt the Tiergarten to the north. But then, from behind her, a Russian jeep, a UAZ diesel with its engine grindingly loud in the silent air, came hurtling too fast down the snowy roads. The sound caught the woman’s attention. She turned. As she did so, she thought to put her hand to her head, pulling down her army cap so that her face was partly covered by its brim. But the movement was an afterthought. It came a second or two later than it should have done if she had wanted to remain concealed. But it made no difference, in any event. There was nothing so uncommon about seeing Red Army troops in the western sectors, but then again there weren’t all that many middle-aged female Red Army sergeants to be found in the Tiergarten either.

The jeep driver saw the woman. The driver turned the wheel and the jeep made a long skidding turn that flung it twenty or thirty feet sideways across the snow. But then the wheels got traction again. The woman began to run. But she had nowhere to run to. The jeep caught up with her. Three men tumbled out of it. The woman was still running, her face completely panicked now, all her joy, her zest for life, utterly extinguished by the sight of her pursuers. The woman made a good job of it. She made eighty, maybe even a hundred yards, keeping her footing well on the icy streets.

But it was one against three, a woman against men, fit middle-age against the arrogant good health of youth. The captain caught her. The other men swung around either side of her. Panting breathlessly, the men frogmarched their captive back to the jeep.

The British Tommies saw it all. One of them, a lance-corporal, was unable to control his feelings. He came running over to the Russians.

‘You bastards,’ he shouted. ‘You fucking bastards lay a hand on her and I’ll fucking—’

But his threat evaporated into nothing. What, after all, could he do about it? The men bundled the woman into the jeep. The driver started the car and sped back, around the gate, into the Soviet sector. The British lance-corporal shouted a few more useless insults at the retreating exhaust pipe, then gave it up. He walked back to his buddies, who gave him a round of ironic applause.

‘Sodding bloody Ivans,’ he said and reached for a fag.

‘Last one,
Knospe
.’

Misha hoisted Rosa up and let her peg the final poster to the washing line, that snaked endlessly beneath a makeshift corrugated-iron roof. Although
Die Trümmerzeitung
allowed them to use their press, Misha had to supply both paper and ink. The only ink he had been able to obtain was an old pre-war batch, that took two or even three days to dry properly in the chilly air. But time didn’t matter too much. He and Willi printed three hundred posters each week and, working by night, posted them all across East Berlin, concentrating especially on U-Bahn stations, office doorways, canteens, food markets, anywhere where people congregated. Each day that passed, more and more people would see the cartoons. One day, Tonya would see them too.

He released his grip on Rosa and let her slide to the ground.

Hanging the posters out had made dinner late and would mean Rosa was late getting to bed. But it couldn’t be helped. Misha was simply too busy to look after everything. His cooking had become more basic. He had allowed himself to skimp on Rosa’s bedtime story, so that now, instead of the long, wild, Russian fairy stories of old, she got little more than a kiss goodnight and a promise to see her in the morning. But Rosa understood. The miraculous little girl didn’t like the slight disintegration of the family unit, but she understood that Misha had to work hard to ‘find the new mummy’. She never complained, but helped out where she could instead.

They went indoors.

The stove was hot. A beef and potato stew – lots of potato, a mere tint of beef – stood warming on the top. Rosa ran to wash her hands. Misha told Willi to do the same, then began to serve up. Willi had the lamp up high, and his fairy-tale painted shade threw huge images of dragons, castles and princesses across the walls.

They were just beginning to eat, when Misha raised his hand, motioning for silence. Rosa stopped dead, her spoon hovering between bowl and mouth. There was movement audible outside. It was too late for ordinary vistors. There was no one with business at the factory. Yet there was certainly somebody there, moving around. Rosa’s eyes widened. An unreasonable hope began to hammer in Misha’s heart.

He had always imagined that Tonya would come by day. But why should she? Perhaps the nights were easier for her to get away. Misha stood up, breathless, excited, his ribs almost cracking with the pressure of so much hope, as his brain vainly tried to persuade him to calm down.

He went outside.

There was somebody moving down the factory wall, under the tin roof where the Comrade Lensky cartoons were drying. The light of a torch poked here and there between the hanging pages.

‘Hello?’ called Misha, adding softly in Russian, ‘
Kto tam?
Who’s there?’

The movement of the torch changed. There was a rustling of paper sheets. A shape emerged from the gloom. Then a man moved out into the open. He flashed his light onto his face so that Misha could see him. The man was big-built, blond, uniformed but somehow untidy with it, as though the uniform were only a lightly worn disguise. The man had taken one of the posters down and was holding it in front of him. The ink was still wet and heavy, and the paper moved stiffly like a board. Misha felt the iron clang of disappointment, and yet he couldn’t quite believe that this unexpected night-time visit was altogether unconnected with his search for Tonya. Misha stood, silently waiting.

‘
Guten Abend
,’ said the man. ‘Sorry to disturb you and all that. I’m looking for a Herr Malevich.’

Misha shook his head, but said nothing. His new name was still a protection to him and he wasn’t keen to reveal his true identity for no reason. But the big man wasn’t put off.

‘Well, now, that’s just it. I expect you’re going to tell me you’re Herr Müller and I’ll bet you anything you like that you’ve got a wallet full of papers to prove it. All the same, it’s Malevich, I want to speak to. Either Malevich, or this little fellow, Kuletsky.’

The big man held up the poster and waved at the little frozen cartoon men who crawled across it. The man came closer to the light from Misha’s front door and he was visible now, a British captain with something cheerful and ruffian-like in his expression. He looked like a man who would get things done. Misha knew without looking around that Rosa was at the front door staring out. He sensed her disappointment almost as intensely as his own.

‘Yes, I’m Malevich. Kuletsky too if it comes to that.’

The Englishman grinned. ‘Splendid. My name’s Hollinger, Harry Hollinger. I’ve got some news for you, not mostly good news, I’m afraid.’

They went inside.

The furnishing was still very basic. That was hardly a surprise, Berlin had lost perhaps two thirds of its buildings and much of the remaining accommodation had been looted. Misha had salvaged some of the furniture, built some more, compromised on the rest. Misha himself sat on a packing case. He indicated that Hollinger was welcome to do the same. Before sitting, Hollinger fingered the glass shade on the oil lamp and set it spinning. Seeing the images spin and whirl across the walls, he grinned with pleasure. He sat down.

‘I’ve interrupted your meal.’

‘Not at all.’

Russian codes of hospitality, and German ones for that matter, insisted that guests always be offered food and drink. But the etiquette of hospitality always presumed that the hosts had spare food to offer and that the guests might need it. Misha didn’t offer. Hollinger didn’t ask. The Englishman glanced around the little family circle. He indicated the sheet of cartoons, which was already softening and unfreezing in the warmth.

‘Who’s the artist? You?’

Willi nodded.

‘It’s good stuff. I like it. I’ll bet you don’t have a license, do you, but the good stuff never does.’ He pulled a large paper-wrapped packet from his pocket and slid it across to Misha. ‘Wanted to bring a gift. Didn’t know what to bring. Hope this comes in.’

The packet was full of cut ham, two pounds at least. Misha took it gratefully. He gave a big slice each to Rosa and Willi, then indicated that they should go next door to their shared bedroom. The pair didn’t even try to protest and crept silently away.

‘You said you had news.’

‘Yes.’ Hollinger frowned. ‘You’re looking for a friend of yours – a lover, for God’s sake, let’s call a spade a spade, why not?’ In Hollinger’s German, that translated simply as
lassen uns ein Spaten einen Spaten nennen
. More or less nonsense, of course. His next words were anything but. ‘You know who I mean. Antonina Kirylovna Kornikova, born Lensky.’

Misha nodded. ‘Kornikova!’ The air in the room was very still, very silent.

‘You didn’t know? That she was married, I mean?’

‘No. When I saw her last, she wasn’t … but I’m pleased. Her cousin, Rodyon Kornikov, was a good man. She did well. I’m pleased.’ Misha found himself repeating himself, but he thought he probably meant it. He had never wanted Tonya to stay unmarried all these years. And Rodyon was a good man, would be – have been? – a good husband. All the same, it was odd learning these things. Misha steeled himself for more.

Hollinger smiled, to acknowledge Misha’s feelings. ‘There’s more. I’m a captain in British Military Intelligence, bit of a contradiction in terms as you’ll see. I recruited Antonina to work for us. She is a translator attached to the SMAD, in a position to see a lot of documents that were of interest to us. She worked for us because she wanted to do the right thing. Because she was scared of what might happen to Germany if her dear friends and colleagues had their way. Perhaps you know…?’

‘Know?’

‘Well, of course, there’s no way you could. She spent time in Siberia. Sentenced to ten years for some perfectly ridiculous reason. Only let out so that she could fight for her country. She lost a couple of fingers with frostbite. It was what first drew our attention to her. I’m very sorry to be the one bringing you so much difficult news.’

‘No, no…’ Misha shook his head. It was true. There was so much news, so much of it difficult. All the same, through all his other feelings, Misha could also feel Hollinger’s courage in coming, his courage in spilling all the information, good and bad, in such a candid way. ‘The Gulag… I had always worried about it… Things became so dangerous, and principles were the most dangerous thing of all. Perhaps Tonya had too many to be safe. And if she married Rodyon … well, he was powerful and principled, the worst combination of all.’

‘Yes. The dictatorship of the proletariat, eh?’ said Hollinger softly. ‘I’ve never had a quarrel with the working classes, it’s just the dicatorship bit that’s hard to swallow. In any case… Antonina did first-class work. The best. I have the very highest respect for her. It wasn’t easy. She did remarkably well.’

Misha noticed that Hollinger had moved from the present tense into the past. The cold air from outside seemed to have entered the room.

‘Recently, six days ago, that’s all, we hit a problem. Our main point of contact with Antonina was via a liaison agent in the Soviet zone, a German woman whom I trust implicitly. This woman’s apartment was raided by the NKVD. Thank God, thank God, nothing was found. This woman had become worried after a security lapse on my part and had taken steps to clear the apartment of anything even vaguely untoward. The NKVD found nothing aside from an old tin of Bournvita. At any rate, it was the drinking chocolate they grilled her about when they arrested her later. Arrested her, then released her. This woman had been giving Antonina violin lessons. That was the cover, but the lessons were perfectly real. As far as I know, the bloody Russians have no firm foundation to accuse Antonina of anything.’

Hollinger went silent. But Misha knew he hadn’t finished. He sighed before continuing.

‘But when did that ever stop them? We’ve lost contact with her. We have had people watching her place of work and her barracks, and found nothing. She has had instructions, naturally, on fall-back meeting places, emergency drops, all that sort of thing. We’ve had no indication from her at all. That’s all we know. The only bright spot is that the Soviets haven’t announced anything. You know the sort of thing. Comrade Whatnotovich found guilty of trading on the black market. Sentenced to three years’ hard labour in Novaya Zemlya. There’s been nothing like that. Nothing that we’ve heard anyway, and our ears for that sort of thing are normally quite good.

‘And that’s it. That’s all I know. I don’t want to assume the worst, but it’s clear that there is a problem. If I had to guess, I’d say she was still in Germany somewhere. Her German was first-class. As good as yours. Better than mine. That’s the sort of skill that Brother Ivan doesn’t give up so easily. In the absence of any real evidence against her, I’d say they’d be likely to keep her here, maybe shift her somewhere less sensitive. I don’t know, but it’s a fair guess. I came here because I wanted you to know everything.’

‘Thank you.’

The Englishman wasn’t done. He pushed a hand through his thick blond hair, turning it from one shape of mess to another. He still hesitated. He reached for a slice of ham, then remembered that the ham would be very precious to any ordinary German and pulled his hand back again – then thought better of his own politeness reached for it again, took it, and ate it.