The Girl in Berlin (17 page)

More troubling – as it had been from the beginning – was the vagueness of his mission. Kingdom had not fully explained why Harris was so important. Although he’d suggested that Harris might have had something to do with the Burgess–Maclean affair, he’d seemed more interested in the reasons for Harris returning to London and, not only that, was keen to keep him away. He can’t do much damage in Berlin, said Kingdom, but we don’t know what he might not get up to over here.

Harris must be important, otherwise Gorch would never
have sanctioned McGovern’s highly unorthodox trip. Perhaps Kingdom had some sort of leverage on Gorch. He’d hinted as much and he’d certainly succeeded in twisting his arm. McGovern didn’t want to think about that, because he needed Gorch to be straight. He couldn’t do the job he did for someone he didn’t respect.

He looked round Hoffmann’s office to distract himself. It was large and spacious, but sparsely furnished. Just an old desk and filing cabinet and a few upright chairs stood forlornly around on the splintered wood floor.

Hoffmann himself had made good, strong coffee – he appeared to have no secretary, which seemed odd – and offered Camel cigarettes. He entertained McGovern with stories of the complexities of the black market, told with an ambiguous detachment, before asking McGovern about his background. McGovern was rather enjoying expanding on his fictitious youth in a provincial Scottish newspaper office, his big scoop – a postwar miners’ strike – and his transfer to the London office of the
Herald
, but Hoffmann started to ask some very probing questions and McGovern was relieved when the doorbell rang.

Hoffmann answered it himself and returned, followed by Colin Harris. When Hoffmann introduced the two men Harris smiled and shook hands. He had a firm grip. He smiled in a perfectly friendly way and showed no trace of recognition, still less suspicion.

‘Dr Hoffmann tells me you’re on an assignment to report on life in Berlin for the British press. He didn’t say which newspaper.’

‘The
Scottish Herald
.’ It was a pretty safe bet that Harris didn’t read the Scottish press. ‘But I also hope to sell an article to one of the weeklies.’

‘The British press has a very negative view of life over here.’

Dr Hoffmann said to Harris: ‘I thought that you would be well placed to give your fellow countryman a fair picture of the German Democratic Republic. It does not surprise me to hear that the British press paints a dismal picture, an ideologically tainted picture. You could redress the balance. I was in any case going to suggest a little tour of the East Berlin scene. We could start at the Kleine Melodie, perhaps. And then on a later occasion you could perhaps show Mr Roberts where all the work is going on to create the new Berlin that is rising on this side of the border.’

‘I’d be very interested in that,’ said McGovern politely – and truthfully.

Dr Hoffmann had a car – unusual, or so McGovern assumed, in the East – and they set off through streets that were eerily silent, even emptier than most of those in the West. Here there had been no attempt to produce the phoenix of a thriving commercial centre. The bar, down a side street, was also quieter than Chez Ronny or the Eldorado, and dirtier too. An accordionist squeezed out a barely recognisable rendition of ‘La Ronde’. The room was stuffy and smelled of dust and beer.

Dr Hoffmann ordered vodka. McGovern had never tasted it before. It had a kick, so he knew he must be careful not to drink too much. But a second round came swiftly. This time McGovern attempted to pay, inadvertently bringing out a Western banknote. When the waiter saw it, he warded it off with a gesture of alarm. Dr Hoffmann smiled and produced his own East German money. ‘Currency smuggling is severely punished here. You can understand the difficulties. The situation is so complex.’ McGovern apologised and stuffed his note back in his pocket.

There was certainly something uneasy about the whole atmosphere of the Kleine Melodie, its sparse sprinkling of drinkers and dismal surroundings. The place depressed McGovern profoundly, but Harris didn’t seem to mind. He
talked freely. There was something innocent and guileless about the man. He enthused over the new socialist Germany. ‘My fiancée wants us to live in England, and I’ve put out a few feelers for work over there, but – I’ve been back recently, and … I don’t know … there’s more hope here, more sense of purpose, less war-mongering. I found London quite dispiriting. I was shocked by all the propaganda, all the talk about rearmament, the Cold War has got such a grip—’

McGovern bit back the startled question about Harris’s future plans that had almost escaped him. Instead he said mildly: ‘We try to report the news honestly, without bias.’

‘You imagine there is such a thing as objective, unbiased news?’

McGovern had expected that response, but he continued: ‘I think it’s important to find areas of common ground.’

‘Common ground, eh.’ Harris laughed and swallowed his vodka in one gulp. ‘How can there be common ground when there are irreconcilable contradictions in capitalist society.’

‘Herr Harris, our British visitor wants to learn about Germany, not listen to tired old arguments about perennial political differences.’ And Hoffmann called for more vodka from the surly, elderly waiter, who limped towards them with the bottle in his hand. At close quarters it became clear he wasn’t elderly, it was rather that his grey face was lined with suffering and privation and a kind of ingrained resentment.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harris smiled. ‘It’s just that I get annoyed with the lies peddled in the West. By the way, I can’t resist asking you, Mr Roberts, what you think of the disappearance of the two diplomats?’

McGovern’s pulse quickened, but all he said was: ‘It’s a complete mystery.’

Harris had reddened and became animated, starting forward in his seat. ‘I think it’s extraordinary. It’s no secret I was a British communist – still am – and there was never any
talk of spying – I never heard of such a thing. In my view, it’s an attempt to smear the Party – I shouldn’t be surprised if they even try to get it banned. And it’s simply ridiculous, isn’t it, to believe that these two upper-class characters could have been secretly spying for the Soviet Union since
before the war
. I simply don’t believe it. Spying and socialism – they’re two completely different things.’

‘You seem very sure that’s what they are. We can nae be certain that’s the case. All that’s known is, they’ve disappeared.’

Harris subsided. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just … well, I don’t believe it, that’s all. And there’s so much cynicism.’

‘Not here as well, surely. Isn’t East Germany trying to do something different? I hoped you could tell me about that.’ The reality of life in East Germany was something about which McGovern had a genuine curiosity, but the news that Harris had decided not to return to London left him completely deflated. His mission had largely succeeded before it had properly begun. He might perhaps be able to claim that it had been he who’d succeeded in dissuading Harris, but the truth was he hadn’t even had to try, and now he was unsure whether there was still any point in delving into Harris’s activities in Berlin. However, for the time being he had no choice other than to plough on. ‘You see, I’m not political. My job is just to describe the world as it seems to me. I don’t have an axe to grind. I’m just trying to be truthful. I’m trying to find out what the new Germany, both halves of it, is really like. I’m sure there’s so much you can tell me. Our readers will be particularly interested in having an objective outsider’s view.’

As the evening progressed and more vodka was drunk, Harris’s mood changed. McGovern had the feeling he didn’t normally drink and, from being open and enthusiastic about East Germany, he became gloomier with each shot. Several times he attempted to continue the conversation about Burgess
and Maclean and reiterated his views on the iniquity of spying and its anti-socialistic nature.

‘I’d never do a thing like that.’

‘Well, I should think not, Mr Harris,’ said Dr Hoffmann drily, ‘but then you’re not a spy, are you.’

Yet the very fact that Harris so emphatically rejected the morality of espionage paradoxically sowed suspicion in McGovern’s mind. Hadn’t Harris denounced spying a little
too
emphatically?

This only made McGovern’s own situation, or rather his mission, more ambiguous. Perhaps – the thought occurred to him with a lurch of anxiety – Kingdom
hoped
Harris would turn out to be a fully committed agent himself, working for the East German communist government. It could be that McGovern’s mission was to discover something of that kind – maybe even to
invent
it – in order to give Kingdom some sort of leverage over his colleagues. Was he caught up in some inter-departmental act of war? That surely wouldn’t do his career any good.

‘I think we should move on,’ said Dr Hoffmann. ‘We will go to the Hotel Nordland for dinner.’

A short drive and they emerged from Hoffmann’s automobile onto another empty square. Opposite the cliff-like hotel a toyshop sent a dim beam of light across the pavement. The blue neon sign of what seemed to be a cooperative restaurant, H.O. Gastronom, gleamed eerily in the surrounding gloom.

The lobby of the Hotel Nordland was by contrast all too bright. They went upstairs to a restaurant. Apart from themselves only two other tables in the high-ceilinged room were occupied and they sat amid a sea of pink tablecloths and gilt chairs. The food, when it came, was elaborate, with game and pork in rich sauces, and there was caviar and Russian champagne, but the conversation was increasingly awkward as Harris drank steadily and Hoffmann began to show signs of impatience. McGovern wished the evening were over and was
thankful when coffee was brought. But then his interest was aroused by what appeared to be a delegation of some kind, who entered and seated themselves at a larger table in the centre of the room. McGovern looked over at the badly dressed men and women: ‘Who are they?’

‘Trade unionists, minor party officials from the government here,’ said Hoffmann.

‘They’re just having coffee and sandwiches,’ observed McGovern.

‘Of course, for the vast majority of East Germans these Nordland prices would be utterly beyond their means, but they are well fed. There has to be a place like this for foreign delegations and so on – for distinguished visitors such as yourself,’ he added with a smirk, ‘but it cannot be a priority.’

Harris was looking around him with a certain disgust. ‘This isn’t the real socialist Germany,’ he said. ‘Despite what I’ve been saying, they’ve got their priorities right over here. Here in the Democratic Republic they put first things first: industry, housing, production. Consumer goods will be the icing on the cake when the real foundations are laid. West Berlin sickens me. I never go there. Their so-called economic miracle will come a cropper sooner or later. But there are problems here too. Very big problems.’ He nodded owlishly. He was quite drunk now.

Dr Hoffmann was watching him closely. ‘It is time to go I think.’ He turned to McGovern.

As they came out of the hotel a battered tram clattered past them, the violent noise only re-emphasising the silence that returned in its wake.

‘I’m going to walk home,’ said Harris. He seemed to have sobered up a bit in the chilly air. ‘Glad to have met you, Mr Roberts.’ And he held out his hand.

‘Can we not meet again? Your perspective interests me. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day? In the afternoon?’

Harris hesitated. Then he said: ‘Why not? My work is freelance and there isn’t that much of it at the moment, so I have plenty of spare time.’

‘You could pick me up from my hotel, if you’re prepared to break your rule of not setting foot in the West. I’m staying at the Hotel Am Zoo – you know, it’s actually opposite the Zoo, hence the name, I suppose.’

‘Very well.’ And Harris walked away quite steadily, his footsteps echoing on the pavement.

Hoffmann drove McGovern back to the Am Zoo. En route they crossed a square where an enormous model of a candle had been erected, topped with a naked flame that flickered in the wind.

‘That’s to remind West Berliners of all the million German prisoners of war still missing in Russia,’ explained Dr Hoffmann in his perennial tone of tolerant irony. ‘You can’t see, probably, in the dark, but there’s a booth underneath, where someone from the Red Cross sells candles for a few pfennigs. The people who buy them have them lighted in the window – it all goes towards the continual Red Cross efforts to search and negotiate to bring more
Spätheimkehrer
home, the ones who are so late coming home.’

‘Are there still so many prisoners of war who haven’t returned?’ McGovern had not known that and was shocked, but he had already learned that there was so much he didn’t know.

In his hotel room, he lay on his bed without undressing. It had been a strange evening. The whole atmosphere had been odd. There was Harris – sincere and naive, but conflicted and unhappy.

And there was Hoffmann. Hoffmann was the enigma. He was living in the West, yet had an office in the Eastern sector. He seemed friendly with Harris, the uprooted communist, who seemed happy nowhere – and yet had spoken enthusiastically
about the new East German republic. And there was Feierabend. What on earth was one to make of him?

But it was to Harris that McGovern’s thoughts repeatedly returned. He’d liked the man. And he believed him when he said he had no time for the spies.

The idea that he’d had something to do with the Burgess and Maclean disappearance was not credible. McGovern simply did not believe it. Therefore he must look elsewhere for the real reason Kingdom had had him sent here.

The obvious reason was that he was to find out what Harris was up to: why he wanted to get married to Frieda Schröder; and why he wanted, or had wanted, to return to England. But that information could surely have been obtained from agents already on the scene. Perhaps therefore the underlying purpose of his visit was to check up on the contacts themselves.

Amid all the ambiguities, however, Kingdom had given him one very clear message about what he wanted. I don’t want Harris back in this country, had been his parting shot. The problem with that was that McGovern had no way of preventing him.