The Girl in Berlin (25 page)

A room at the front: McGovern saw himself in a room at the front in a different sense. Here he was on the front line of the Cold War, staring out of his window at the fault line between East and West. He did not feel that he personally was walking that tightrope, although he’d again carefully searched his room for signs of anything suspicious, but he now understood why the Berliners were as they were. It was about more than survival after defeat. Their war had not ended. The men with a voice, the politicians and ideologues on both sides, talked of good and evil, black and white, but Berliners lived in a world of grey shadows. Life here was an uneasy balancing act. It was an act, a performance and that’s why you never knew where you were with anyone.

Harris was waiting for him in the bar. ‘Thanks for getting in touch. I thought you said you probably wouldn’t be back.’

Someone was playing the piano in the adjacent lounge. Its crystal notes fell like drops of water from a fountain.

‘There’s been a change of plan. Let me get you a drink.’

‘Just some coffee, thank you. I suppose they have decent coffee in a place like this. Coffee’s almost impossible to obtain over here.’

McGovern had already decided what he was going to say. It was against everything he’d been taught. He waited until the coffee had been served. Then: ‘I’m not actually a journalist. You’ve been very frank with me. I shall be frank with you. I’m investigating a crime. The death of Konrad Eberhardt.’

As Harris listened, his puzzled look morphed into a frown. ‘You took advantage of me, deceived me.’ He stood up, an angry, clumsy movement, knocking the coffee table so that the cups rattled and spilled. ‘What crime am I supposed to have committed now? Are you going to arrest me?’

‘Sit down. Of course I’m not going to arrest you. You saw Eberhardt shortly before he died, at Garfield’s funeral, at the cemetery, but I don’t believe you murdered him. Why would you do that? What would the motive have been? But I am interested in the parcel he handed you when you and Alex Biermann talked to him there. There was a radio interview – he mentioned an autobiography. Was that what was in the parcel? The manuscript?’

Harris didn’t sit down again, but he didn’t leave either. ‘I trusted you.’

‘You can trust me. The fact I’ve told you who I am proves that, doesn’t it? I’m not here to harm you. But perhaps you can help me. Do you have any idea why Eberhardt was murdered?’

‘Why should I know why Eberhardt was murdered?’

‘It must concern you, though. The most likely explanation is that someone wanted to stop him shipping the manuscript out of the country.’

Slowly, Harris sat down. He still looked angry. ‘How did you know about the manuscript?’ Harris’s mood seemed to slip
into resignation, defeat, fatigue. ‘I knew I was being followed. I was certain of it.’

McGovern ignored the question. ‘Tell me about the manuscript.’

‘Alex was fond of Eberhardt. God knows why, he was a horrible old man, but Alex was sorry for him, I suppose. The two of them used to argue about politics, but they enjoyed it. Then I got a letter from Alex, telling me that Eberhardt had made some sort of confession. He’d admitted he’d informed on fellow exiles and people he still knew who were communists. Alex was horrified, naturally, but then he got this idea that it all had to be made public. He encouraged Eberhardt to write it all down. Eberhardt was vain as well as everything else. It sounds crazy, but he rather liked the idea. He’d confess and be admired for it. When I was over there I went down to see him to talk about it. I was meant to collect the manuscript, but it wasn’t ready. I was pretty sceptical about the whole thing, actually, and when I visited him I could see he was wandering a bit. I didn’t really believe the book existed, but Alex said he’d seen it. Eberhardt had written a whole section on his childhood months or even years before and now he was bringing it up to date with all the stuff about his years in exile. Alex said he’d be coming to the funeral and would bring it with him then. And I’d bring it back here. Alex believed he was doing the right thing, the book would expose the betrayals of the West, how Konrad was used. Then he got this mad idea that the old man should return to East Germany. Eberhardt had complained about being lonely, he had said to Alex he was homesick, so Alex thought it would be a wonderful
coup de théâtre
. Famous scientist sees the light, returns to his new socialist homeland and denounces the Western spy system that manipulated him, while his book reveals how he was put under pressure to become an informer and betray his friends. To be fair, Alex was also genuinely worried about him, he wasn’t looking after himself
and Alex thought he’d be better in Dresden, he’d be looked after by his family. But even that wasn’t realistic, his family hadn’t been in touch with him since before the war. It was a sort of fantasy on Alex’s part. He was always a bit hare-brained.’

‘So why did you allow yourself to be involved?’

‘I suppose I got a bit carried away by the whole idea too. Look—’ Harris leaned forward. ‘Eberhardt was interned, although he was an anti-Nazi. The German anti-Nazis weren’t treated very well, they were banged up just like the fascists.
With
the fascists. And if he’d been pressured to inform – on communists, not on the Nazis, mind you – I thought it was fair enough to expose it. So I was to bring the manuscript back, because Alex knew, really, deep down he knew that Eberhardt wasn’t ever actually going to get back to Dresden. So I was to bring it back here and work on it.’

‘He bought the tickets. Why did he do that, if he didn’t think Eberhardt would get there?’

‘You don’t know Alex.’

‘So you have the manuscript. And is it damaging? To British interests, that is?’

A smile cracked Harris’s gaunt face. ‘As soon as I started to read it I realised it was nonsense. It was confused, it was – well, rubbish. Most of it anyway. Completely useless. The early part, about his childhood, was more or less coherent, I think he must have written it some time ago, but the rest – hopeless, I’m afraid.’

‘Whoever pushed him into the canal was hoping to get the manuscript? That could have been the motive. That could explain why someone got rid of him. Though why there – on that particular day—’

McGovern had been concentrating so intensely on what Harris was telling him that he’d forgotten his surroundings, but now he became aware once more of the discreet sounds, beer poured, the distant piano, low voices.

So there was no damning manuscript. That would please Kingdom.

‘Ironically, of course, from my point of view it’s rather a disaster. I’d hoped to make some money out of it. If it had been a big publishing success. You see – so I am a traitor, after all. Only I don’t see it like that.’

‘How
do
you see it? I got the impression you’re nae so impressed with East Germany.’

‘I change my mind from day to day. If the Eberhardt thing blows over, I still may return to England. Do the right thing by Frieda.’

Did that mean, McGovern wondered, that Harris was to get her into Britain where she could operate as some kind of spy? Victor Jordan had said Harris was a lamb to the slaughter, but it was beginning to seem more complicated than that. McGovern wished he didn’t like him. ‘Frieda still wants to leave? Get away from her father?’

Harris nodded. ‘But there’s a complication. Schröder’s been back a couple of times to his old hunting ground, Saalfeld, where he came from. They want me to go with him.’

‘They?’

‘The East Germans. They want to know exactly what he’s up to. And they think I’m in his confidence, that he trusts me. He actually doesn’t trust anyone, but he’s happy for me to go with him. I think it’s because he thinks if there’s any trouble I’ll take the brunt of it. And I’m quite keen to go, because there’s a hell of a lot going on down there. Things that shouldn’t be going on in a socialist country. Unrest among the workers. If I get a look at what’s really going on, it may help to make up my mind. It’s a pity you’re not a journalist, you could have come with me and perhaps you’d have got a scoop for the Western press.’

‘They’d nae let a foreigner within a hundred miles of the place.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Not that I wouldn’t be interested. I’m told there’s uranium in the region.’

‘You knew that, did you? Who told you that?’

McGovern didn’t answer, but merely shrugged and Harris continued anyway.

‘You’re right. There is. And a lot more than that. That’s partly why I wanted to go on my own account, not just to keep an eye on Schröder. Mind you, anything that gets him into trouble is good news in my book. If he could be brought to trial …’

‘Would Miss Schröder be happy to stay here then, if that were to happen?’

Harris frowned. ‘I don’t know about that. No – on the whole I think she’d still want to get away.’

‘So tell me what’s going on in – Saalfeld, is that the name?’

‘Saalfeld’s most important industry is the Maxhütte steel mill. It’s the most important in the Soviet zone, so they’re expanding it as rapidly as they can. The Soviets have been mining for uranium in the ore mountains of Western Saxony since 1947. They need it for their own atom bomb. It’s all under their direct control.’ Harris paused and glared at McGovern. ‘I suppose you don’t think the Soviet Union should have an atom bomb. But as the West has one—’

McGovern put up a hand to halt the flow. ‘Let’s leave that out of it. I’m not here to debate the rights and wrongs of the atom bomb. I’m interested in what you’re telling me, that’s all.’

‘We don’t get to hear about what’s going on down there. But there have been rumours. I need to see what’s going on with my own eyes. Then I suppose if I did decide to leave it could get me back into work in England. It would be a big scoop. I don’t know if I could quite bring myself to do that, though.’ Abruptly, he stood up and held out his hand. ‘I’m off
tomorrow. No chance of seeing you again before I go. I hope you sort out the Eberhardt business.’

Once again, McGovern was alone with only the soft murmur of voices for company. The pianist no longer played. Little as he liked the German beer, he signalled to the barman for another.

He knew less than ever what to make of Harris: one moment a disillusioned Red, the next working for the East Germans. He supposed that his tactic of honesty with Harris had worked. But what he was supposed to do with Harris now he had no idea.

Feierabend had suggested a rendezvous in the Zoological Garden as it was such a fine day. The warm, brown eyes, the lock of hair, the rosy lips were all in place, the mask of the Berlin survivor. He was friendly as ever, smilingly delighted to see his old friend McGovern, yet McGovern detected a slightly disturbing flicker of uncertainty.

‘I have arranged for you to see Herr Dr Hoffmann again, at his office,’ he said. ‘He was unfortunately not free to see you this morning at your hotel. His chauffeur will meet you at the crossing point.’

McGovern remembered Victor Jordan’s advice from his previous Berlin trip. ‘I’ve been warned not to see him in East Berlin again. I was told that would be risky.’

‘Oh … I don’t think you should worry, Mr Roberts. You are a British citizen, after all.’

‘Very well.’ McGovern decided to accept, because if he got cold feet later, he could always decide just not to turn up.

‘I saw Harris again. He told me he’s going to a mining area in the east of the country. He said something about some unrest?’

‘Oh – in Saalfeld, Thuringia. He is to try to go there? That will be very risky for him, I believe.’

‘Why is that? What’s been going on?’

‘Where should I begin? Rumours are rife over here on this side. We know there are many problems in the region, due to the expansion of the steel mills and the uranium mining. The Russians have drafted in hundreds of extra steel workers from all over the place to add to the many refugees from further east who were already there. It’s become almost a forced-labour situation, and frantic efforts to raise productivity – anything from piece rates to coercion – have failed. This is what we have heard.’

‘We never hear anything about this in the West.’

‘You surprise me. It would make excellent propaganda. It’s hardly an advertisement for socialism. You see, the result of the influx of workers has meant unbelievable shortages of everything, from food to housing, and the predictable resulting resentment of the local population. And now there’s unrest in the countryside as well, with compulsory food levies in order to feed the newcomers. There’s been black marketeering, of course, like everywhere else. This is not what the East Germans want just when they are in the middle of trying to create the new socialist state.’

‘You seem to know all about it.’

‘Well, it is very interesting. Of course everyone wants to find out what’s going on. And that’s always easier when the people are angry and starting to rebel. It hasn’t been well handled. There have been arrests, interrogations, officials being purged. They say it is like the American Wild West down there, an East German Klondike, drunkenness, whoring and fights. The whole place is a tinder box. It is all building up to a strike or something worse, a riot, even a full-scale uprising.’

‘Do you have an idea why Schröder and Harris are going there?’

Feierabend smiled. ‘It is obvious, is it not? Schröder is up to no good. And Harris is a fool.’

No-one spoke well of Schröder, he was seen on all sides as a thug, so McGovern was happy to accept that, but it was harder to swallow the idea of Harris as a fool. He was an intelligent man, an idealist, misguided perhaps, but … to put himself in danger by going to Thuringia was more than foolish. It seemed like the action of a madman.

twenty-five

M
ANFRED JARRELL AND DI SLATER
walked towards the block of flats where Alex Biermann had lived. The sunlit street was silent and dreamlike as they approached the building and saw the black police Wolseley sedan and the ambulance. Jarrell counted five bystanders, neighbours, three in front of their front doors and two staring out from upper windows, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. They too seemed locked into the silence of the place.