The Girl in Berlin (15 page)

On an impulse he asked her to dance. He’d expected her to refuse, but at once she brightened up. He felt self-conscious as they took to the empty floor, as he was no expert dancer, but she moved easily against him and their slow, rhythmic movements lulled him into an unexpected
sense of ease, so that for the first time he forgot about his suspicions and anxieties as they swayed together, circling in space, their surroundings forgotten.

fourteen

T
HE STAIRCASE CURVED ROUND
the wall, to the second floor. Of its iron balustrade only the sockets remained and the stone steps were chipped and cracked. Frieda kept her hand on the wall as she climbed and tried not to look down. Everyone knew the building was unsafe. Her key rattled in the lock and the door creaked as she pushed it. At once Herr Vogel opened his inner door and peered out. She flinched at the sight of his long nose and sinewy lips, his sour expression and spiteful eyes.

‘The rubbish was not taken out this morning.’ He moved further into the passage, barring her way.

‘I’m sorry – I was late for work, and—’

‘That’s no excuse. It is your responsibility to take out the rubbish, that was agreed. That you are too lazy to get up for work on time is not my problem.’

‘I’ll take it down now,’ she said meekly.

‘Are you joking? This is a ridiculous idea. The rubbish must be taken down in the morning. You know that perfectly well. So my wife has had to take it down two flights of stairs. With her bad back that’s not funny.’

Suddenly Frieda had had enough. ‘Couldn’t you have taken it down yourself?’ But as soon as she’d spoken her stomach contracted with fear. She couldn’t afford to anger him. She was
afraid, always so afraid. It was hard to always have to be so careful.

‘Is that meant to be a joke?’ he barked. ‘Is that all you have to say?’

She looked down like a child being admonished.

‘We did not want you here in the first place. You know that, I think. All you refugees – you were billeted on us, we were forced to take you in – my son lost his room, you made my wife sick with your mess in our kitchen. And now this impertinence.’

Frieda swallowed back the lump in her throat. ‘I’m sorry.’ She forced the words out.

‘I don’t know how long this can go on. We all know what your father got up to in the war. He wouldn’t want the bureaucrats in Pankow to find out too much, would he? And why did you come running back over to this side? Things get too hot in the West?’

She said nothing. The silence lengthened as the recognition dawned on Herr Vogel that he’d spoken recklessly, that he might have gone a bit too far. Everyone had to be careful what they said these days. Frieda allowed herself a half smile. Improbably, her father had made quite a few friends in the Communist Party. He could well make life unpleasant for the Vogels. Perhaps they might even be turned out of the flat altogether, leaving it free for her father and herself.

But soon none of this would matter – these quarrels that were part of daily life and would never change. Nothing would ever change here. The threats and counter-threats signified little, because there simply weren’t enough dwellings. The apartments on the Stalin Allee were not even begun, the area was still being cleared by the cohorts of voluntary labourers. Frieda and her father were condemned to live on top of the Vogel family in this kind of hell for the foreseeable future. Or rather,
they
were. But not she. She would escape. The only
solution was to get away. She would. She
must
. And there had been a new surge of hope today when Hoffmann had introduced her to the Englishman. Another Englishman! It seemed almost too good to be true. It was a little bit of insurance, just in case Colin couldn’t find a way.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated and moved forward and now Herr Vogel moved back to let her pass. She turned the key in the lock of her room, shut the door behind her and sat listlessly on the bed which also served as a sofa. She took some bread, margarine and cheese from the cupboard. This room was their life. Her father had the divan, of course. She had to sleep on a camp bed at the back of the hall.

She put the food on a plate, but then left it on the table and went to the window. The view of the square with the water tower at its centre was the best thing about the room, the only good thing. But now Colin was back. He was coming to see her this evening. Perhaps he would have good news.

The government didn’t like East Germans trying to leave the Democratic Republic. It was unpatriotic, anti-socialist. You weren’t even supposed to travel into West Berlin – there were all sorts of inducements not to. She didn’t care.

It would be wonderful to get away. But could she –
could she
– really marry Colin? He was so sweet, correct and chivalrous. He was kind to her – not unlike the Colonel in a way. Unlike the Colonel, though, he had never made love to her, had never even tried. It seemed unnatural. He was manly and not bad looking, yet – but perhaps it was the English school system, again, that suppressed his inclinations or made him unable to express them. Or perhaps it was part of that famous British ‘fair play’ that the Colonel used to refer to. Perhaps Colin was just chivalrous and scorned the idea of taking advantage of her until they were legally married.

She had tried, but if an embrace became too prolonged he had always withdrawn with a gentle smile. She sometimes
suspected he only pitied her, in much the same way as he’d pitied the orphaned puppy they’d once found whimpering in the ruins. But perhaps it didn’t matter that she was not loved, but only pitied, so long as she reached England.

The door banged open. She looked up, anxious, but her father seemed in an unusually good mood. She feared his violence almost as much as ever, but with the hope of escape she was these days observing him with growing detachment. She’d known for a long time that she had no love for him, nor he for her, but her fear was beginning ever so slowly to fade, replaced by hatred, or something that would have been hatred had it not been so cold, so dispassionate. She watched him as if from far off. He was no longer even her father, but just an unpleasant, uncouth bully. But until she got away, cut loose from him, she would never be free of the past.

‘I’m hungry. What is there to eat?’

‘There’s some stew,’ she said, ‘left over from yesterday. I’ll heat it up.’ She fetched the saucepan and took it into the communal kitchen. When she returned she said: ‘I met an Englishman today, Herr Dr Hoffmann introduced us. I thought you might know something about it.’

‘
Another
Englishman? Why should I know anything about this, stupid bitch?’

She already wished she hadn’t mentioned the meeting. Any encounter with a foreigner, and English at that, was naturally suspicious. It was also a possible opportunity. She sighed. She was too tired to explain. What was the point?

She ladled the stew, which was actually a potato and cabbage soup with some pork knuckle floating in it, into bowls and father and daughter sat and faced each other as they ate.

‘Well – go on. Tell me. What was he like? Getting anything out of you is like getting blood out of a stone.’

He was always so angry, always had been. She tried to remember what he’d been like before he got the job … but
she’d been so little then and couldn’t remember a time when their home hadn’t been filled with his rages. Her mother used to say it was because of the work, that it had changed him, he hadn’t quite known what he was letting himself in for when he’d applied, but in the SS you obey orders. Frieda didn’t accept that excuse. He’d
loved
his work. And loved what came after too. When they’d fled the Russians he’d managed to cast off his job and all that it meant, but he hadn’t shed his violent temper.

‘Tell me!’ he shouted now. His good mood had evaporated.

‘I don’t know, there’s not much to tell. He was a journalist, that’s all.’

Der Vater
didn’t beat her so often these days, but he bullied her with words, with his shouting and with his threats. At first he’d opposed the marriage. He’d shouted she wouldn’t get a passport or a visa, he’d see to that. A daughter had no right to leave a parent. And what of her duty to her country, to the fatherland?

Then one day he’d abruptly changed. It might not be such a bad idea after all, for her to get married and move to England. He could follow her eventually. She’d swallowed that terrifying threat with the thought that once she was there, once she’d reached the promised land, she’d make sure he never did.

He glared at her. ‘I’m going back to Saalfeld next week,’ he said. ‘For Hoffmann. Hoffmann wants me to go and have a look down there. See what’s going on.’

‘For Herr Dr Hoffmann? But why?’

Her father grinned. ‘Never you mind,’ he said, ‘and don’t go talking about it either, or you’ll regret it.’

Later that evening Colin called round.

‘How lovely.’ She didn’t dare fling her arms around him, but instead carefully took his arm.

‘Let’s sit in the square,’ he said, ‘it’s a nice evening.’

They walked across the street and sat in front of the water tower. It was very quiet. Occasionally a bicyclist whirred by.

He put his arm round her. He looked at her with his kind look – but that look dismayed her, for it often preceded bad news. ‘I’m not sure, you know, it’s such a good idea to go back to England.’

She felt faint as the words sank in. She was mute with … it was dreadful, a great void opened up inside her—

‘What would you think if I stayed here? We could still get married.’

‘But you said … what are you talking about?’

‘I’m not sure it’s such a good place to be.’

‘Colin – please – don’t say that—’

Colin stared ahead. She thought the silence would go on for ever.

‘I can’t bear living here,’ she muttered. She remembered what had happened during the day. ‘I met another Englishman,’ she said. ‘Herr Dr Hoffmann introduced us.’

Colin sat up sharply. ‘What did he look like? What was his name?’

‘Herr Dr Hoffmann wants you to meet him. He says you could meet in his office tomorrow afternoon, late afternoon, or evening.’

Colin frowned. ‘I don’t trust Hoffmann.’ He’d brought cigarettes from England. He offered her one and they sat smoking in silence. The taste was subtly different from the cigarettes you got, if you were lucky, in Berlin.

‘While I was over there,’ said Colin eventually, ‘I wasn’t only sorting out visas and trying to find a job. I met one or two old friends. Things don’t look that good so far as work’s concerned, but I decided not to worry too much about that. I could probably get some freelance assignments … anyway … I also thought I might get some work through the Party. I met up with someone I used to know. His family’s German but he was
brought up over there, they were exiles. He’s a British citizen and all that. He’d been seeing someone – another pre-war refugee – a well-known scientist.’

‘What has this to do with our getting married, getting away from here?’

‘Hang on, I’m coming to that. This man, his name’s Konrad Eberhardt, had written his autobiography, so my friend said, but he needed someone to help with the finishing touches. Alex thought it might be just the thing for me.’ Colin paused. He ground out his cigarette and flung the stub away. He’d been leaning forward, staring at nothing, but now he turned towards Frieda. ‘To cut a long story short,’ he went on, ‘Alex thought it would be a wonderful propaganda coup if Eberhardt’s autobiography could be published. Eberhardt had been a communist before the war, then he moved to the right, but Alex thought he’d come to see things differently again. He even thought he migh persuade him to come back to live over here. Alex is a committed communist, you see. I was sceptical about it all, but I ended up agreeing. It sounds a bit strange, but Eberhardt was to hand over the manuscript at a funeral we were all going to. And he did. But a few days later we found out he’d been murdered. The news of his death wasn’t such big news as it probably otherwise would have been because there’s a huge scandal going on over there. You probably haven’t heard about it, they seem to be playing it down over here. It’s about some spies who were probably double agents. But you see, I’m worried they might connect me with the murder.’

He stopped. Frieda realised it was the end of the story, but she didn’t understand it. After the silence had lasted for a minute or two, she said: ‘What has this to do with us? I simply don’t understand. Why would they suspect you of his murder?’

‘I’ve been in trouble with the police before. I don’t want any more trouble. It’s better if I stay here – at least for a while.’

‘In trouble with the police?’

‘I wasn’t guilty. I got off in the end. I’m sure I was framed, you see. So I’m scared they’ll try it again.’

‘They?’

Colin shook his head. ‘It’s too complicated to explain. I just got the wind up, that’s all. I’m – well, I’m frightened to go back.’

Frieda stood up. ‘No, Colin,’ she said. She was scared, but determined. ‘You mustn’t be frightened. I’m not going to go on living here. You promised. I won’t let you back out of it now.’

He looked sadly up at her, then stood up himself. ‘It’s so difficult, Frieda. Let’s see what happens. Maybe they’ll find out who killed him. If they arrest someone …’ The sentence petered out in a shrug.

Frieda wanted to scream. But she controlled her feelings. She was good at that. ‘My father says he’s going back to Saalfeld next week, you know, where we used to live.’

‘Is he? What for?’

‘I don’t know. Something to do with Hoffmann. Something bad.’ She braced herself. She had to be decisive. ‘Colin, I won’t stay here much longer. I
won’t
.’

Colin lit another cigarette. ‘Please don’t be upset, Frieda. Look, nothing’s definite either way – about London,’ he said. He put his arm round her shoulders as they walked back towards the apartment. She felt a little better then. Besides, there was now the other Englishman. It was strange of Hoffmann to have introduced them, but it might be a different opportunity.