Another Kind of Country (17 page)

Miller nodded. He’d heard it all more than once.

He didn’t look back when
he stepped out past the rubbish bins, in the direction of Ilford station.

Two days later Miller landed on a British Airways flight at Tegel Airport in West Berlin. That afternoon he passed through Checkpoint Charlie into the Eastern half of the city.

October 1989

East Berlin

It was almost a relief when the phone rang. His mind refused to focus on the manuscript on his desk: he could see only that wide full mouth, her shoulder-length black hair, the deeps of her black eyes.
Concentrate: you’ve got to write that piece for General Reder
. He picked up the phone.

‘Miller.’

‘Herr Miller, somebody is phoning from England.’ The operator sounded angry. ‘He insists on talking to you.’

Correspondence with the English-speaking world was one thing; phone calls from that world were rare – and they
never
came to Patrick Miller.

‘Who is it?’

‘I’ve told him that he should speak with Herr Direktor Hartheim but he keeps repeating your name. He says it’s most important and urgent.’ The operator’s voice still tetchy, as if she’d been arguing with the caller.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Whit-acre.’ Two long drawn-out syllables, spoken slowly. ‘He says you have written to him.’

Whitacre
. No bell rang. He looked out of the window but he could still see her face in
the patch of October sky.

‘What did I write to him about?’

In his ear he could hear a phone ringing.

‘Herr Miller, please hold, the other line—’ She was gone, static in his ear. But no Whitacre or even Whit-acre.

‘Herr Miller, sorry.’ Exasperation in the operator’s voice now.
You should get a different job
. ‘Herr Whit-acre said he wishes to speak to you about our dictionaries.’

Dictionaries. Alphabets. R is for Rosa, Rosa Rossman.

‘He wants to speak to me about dictionaries?’

‘Herr Miller, shall I tell Herr Whit-acre you are engaged?’

Whitacre
. He remembered now. Welwyn Garden City. Offering pennies for first-class dictionaries.

‘Put him through.’

‘Herr Miller? This is T. J. Whitacre in Welwyn Garden City.’ The plummy polish of a public school education. ‘I wrote to you about buying a lot of dictionaries from you.’

‘And I explained in my letter that your offer was rather wide of the mark, Mr Whitacre.’

‘I think you’ll find what I have to offer now is very interesting indeed, Herr Miller.’

Another copper or two per book
. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘I’d like to make you an offer for world rights in your entire nonfiction list.’

‘Our
entire
nonfiction list?’

‘Indeed – dictionaries, science books, atlases, the whole shootin’ match.’

‘But,’ was T. J. Whitacre out of his mind? ‘we publish hundreds of such books.’

‘As I know full well.’

‘And how many copies of these books
are you proposing to buy?’

‘Not
copies
, Herr Miller,
rights
. We’re proposing to acquire publishing
rights
, worldwide, in your entire nonfiction list.’

‘Mr Whitacre, this may be your idea of a joke,’
either that or you’re plain fucking insane
, ‘but these books are published by one of our state publishing houses and I can assure you that there is no plan – nor any reason – to sell off rights in the list.’

‘That’s not what I’m hearing, Herr Miller.’ Was the fellow
chuckling
on the line? ‘Not at all what I’m hearing.’

‘Mr Whitacre, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What exactly are you hearing?’

‘Herr Miller,’ the fellow
was
chuckling, ‘you know how it is: a nod and a wink, rumours, remarks overheard at book fairs and conferences. As we understand it, your list may be for sale and we’re prepared to make you a good offer.’ No chuckling now, more like a gulped swallow down the line. ‘A
damned
good offer, Herr Miller.’

‘Mr Whitacre, I’m sure there has been some misunderstanding,’
and all phone calls here are automatically recorded
, ‘and I’m afraid I cannot help you.’

‘We’re serious about this offer, Herr Miller.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ and I’m serious about not wanting to be part of a recorded phone conversation that could be considered treasonable, ‘but I can assure you that you have been misinformed.’

‘I thought I might fly over with one of my colleagues to discuss the matter.’

‘There really is no point, Mr Whitacre.’

‘We could be there tomorrow or the day after.’ T. J. Whitacre was nothing if not persistent. ‘We think you’ll like what we have to tell you.’

‘In three days’ time,’ Miller said, ‘we celebrate our fortieth anniversary – not much of anything
will happen here until after that.’

‘Anniversary?’

‘Yes, Mr Whitacre, our anniversary.’
If you want our books, you might at least learn something about us
. ‘It’s forty years since the GDR was established, way back in nineteen forty-nine.’

‘Ah, of course!’ An intake of breath, a more sombre tone, like words of sympathy offered to bereaved survivors. ‘A great national occasion, I’m sure, but the world moves on.’ Another pause. ‘When you get the chance, Herr Miller, before or after your “anniversary”, you might be good enough to call me back.’

‘If you wish but I’m a very small cog in a very large and complicated machine.’

‘But you’re English, Herr Miller—’

‘Nowadays I have an East German passport.’

‘And we can remember your writings in the
Guardian
.’

‘All in the past, Mr Whitacre.’ And I don’t need a reminder in the present, especially in phone recordings. ‘I’ll take your number.’

He jotted down the number, assured T. J. Whitacre that he would discuss the matter with his colleagues, and hung up with relief.
What on earth was all that about?

And what did Whitacre mean by ‘the world moves on’? Mikhail Gorbachev would lend the support of the Soviet Union to the celebrations, along with other leaders from the Soviet bloc; even the PLO’s Yasser Arafat would turn up. What was Whitacre chuckling about?

At the very least, Miller figured, he might as well take a look at one or two publishing contracts.

He phoned Frau Siedel to ask if Herr Direktor Hartheim was available. She reminded him that the Herr Direktor was at Normannenstrasse, presenting copies of the jubilee celebration brochure to General
Erich Mielke. Miller hadn’t forgotten; he wanted it recorded by Hartheim’s secretary that he’d
asked
. And it would seem perfectly natural, in light of Whitacre’s call, for Miller to take a look at the publishing contracts for their dictionaries.

The Registry of Contracts and Agreements was housed in the basement. Frau Marta Tischler, tall, big-boned and almost sixty years old, guarded her domain of shelves and filing cabinets with the fierce vigilance of Cerberus at the gates of the Underworld. Someone had once remarked of Frau Tischler that, although she had only one head compared to Cerberus’s three, she could observe more with her two eyes than the mythical dog with six. Patrick Miller had always felt that Frau Tischler’s powerful jaws could also do as much damage as Cerberus with his three heads.

She watched Miller fill in the request form on the metal counter at the entrance to her territory.

‘Our dictionaries?’ Her white hair seemed even whiter under the basement strip lighting. ‘You too?’

Miller looked at her, said nothing. He’d learned over the years.

Sometimes Frau Tischler gave you nothing even if you
didn’t
ask.

Miller also knew that, for Frau Tischler, his Englishness was a plus. In April 1945, as the combined Allies had made their final push into Western Germany, the then fifteen-year-old Marta Tischler had been gang-raped by North African soldiers of the French forces; as they were finishing, buttoning their flies, a couple of American privates who chanced on the scene decided that they too were in need of relief. The young British lieutenant who was driving by the bombed-out building promptly stopped his jeep, pistol-whipped the American who was
in flagrante
while his accomplice waited impatiently, and scattered the entire assembly with a
shot over their heads. He delivered the stricken girl to the nearest field hospital, ordered the medics to take care of her, and for the next week brought her chocolates, chewing gum, cigarettes and canned food to take home. Marta Tischler’s home no longer existed; neither did any member of her family. In the ruins of her home city, she could not stomach the conquerors who had defiled her. Against the westward-fleeing tide of refugees she headed east to Berlin. The young British lieutenant helped her with papers of safe passage through the occupied country, gave her money and sweets for the journey. In the Soviet zone of Berlin she felt unexpectedly safe and, although never letting go of a deep fear and hatred of all things French and American, she cherished her affection for the young British officer who had saved her.

All of which Miller had heard, in dribs and drabs, from different colleagues who had a healthy fear of Frau Tischler’s disapproval.

So Miller waited.
Our dictionaries? You too?

‘I’ve never known so many requests to examine my contracts for dictionaries and the like.’

Miller nodded, raised his eyebrows in silent question.

But Frau Tischler obviously felt that she had passed enough information across the registry counter.

‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I’m just
imagining
all the requests.’

‘Very likely, Frau Tischler,’ Miller said.
Except that you have a perfectly real grasp of everything that goes on in this registry
. ‘Maybe I could just take a look at some of the contracts now, as I’m here.’

‘
Some
of them?’

‘Whatever you suggest.’

‘And,’ Frau Tischler brandished the single completed form, ‘the request docket?’

‘I could take a quick look here at
the counter.’ Miller gave her what he hoped was his best smile. ‘No need to take the files away.’

The hush in the basement registry seemed to deepen. Under Frau Tischler’s quizzical gaze Miller felt he could imagine even the pages in the assembled files holding their papery breath.
Life and business in the GDR
.

‘Of course, Herr Miller.’ Something like a smile on that lantern jaw. ‘You can certainly have a quick look at some of the contracts here at the counter.’

The pile of manila folders that Frau Tischler laid on the counter held contracts for publications spanning more than two decades. A two-volume large-format German–English–German dictionary from the early 1970s. A single-volume paperback compilation. An atlas of the world. Various German grammars. A lavishly illustrated history of European art.

Miller was conscious of Frau Tischler’s nearness as he turned the stapled pages of each contract and glanced at some of the accompanying letters in each folder. Everything was signed, every page initialled. All of the books had been produced by teams put together from various universities, copyright vested in the GDR. He shrugged, only partly for Frau Tischler’s benefit.

‘Thank you, Frau Tischler.’ He pushed the stack of folders across the counter.

She nodded, left one more folder in front of Miller.

What now?
He looked at her but she ignored him, eyes downcast.

He knew this book: a handsome catalogue of Renaissance paintings at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, widely admired for the quality of its illustrations, the scholarship of its commentary. No expense had been spared in this production, from the quality of its
slip case to the heavy art paper pages. Not a year passed without at least one request for foreign language rights landing on Miller’s desk. No request was ever granted. It was a jewel in the crown, worth even more than the welcome hard currency earned in international sales.

And Miller could see why Frau Tischler had handed him the file for this book.

The book had been published as long ago as 1969, the contract obviously typed on the oldest typewriters. The pages were yellowing, the top corners browned with the rust marks of an ancient staple. But the staple that now held the pages together was shining bright. Perhaps just replaced – maybe Frau Tischler was in the habit of replacing elderly staples in her beloved files.

Although standing opposite him, Frau Tischler was still too busy rearranging files to meet Miller’s eyes.

Miller fingered the top page of the stapled contract. Someone had managed to find an ageing page of the same vintage as the rest of the contract but, to Miller’s fingers, the page was of the wrong weight. The top page felt thinner, lighter – the GDR in money-saving mode.

Read it. With care.

It didn’t take too much care: the alteration to the opening clause of the agreement was casual, blatant. The agreement began in the usual way, stating that it was made

It was that seemingly innocuous phrase, ‘any nominee nominated by the legally appointed Director of the Publishers’ that made him blink, look up at Frau Tischler. She met his gaze but without expression.

Without a word she handed back to him the files she held in her arms. It took only a minute to see that all of the contracts had been similarly doctored.
Any nominee nominated by the legally appointed Director of the Publishers
: meaning that Hartheim could hand control to anybody, from Mickey Mouse to Yuri Gagarin. Hartheim had the publishing operation where he wanted it – in his pocket.

You had to be careful with your phrasing of a question; ask it in the wrong way and it might not be answered at all.