The Girl in Berlin (28 page)

He refrained from the obvious reply: that working in a concentration camp wasn’t just any dirty little secret.

Unexpectedly her mood seemed to lift. ‘My father is away,’ she said, ‘and Colin has gone with him. So I can do what I want. Perhaps I could show you something of Berlin? On Saturday? We could go for a bicycle ride. Then we could discuss your suggestion. Whether it is possible for me to leave on my own.’

The man on the desk at the hotel had told McGovern with a pitying smile that bicycles were in short supply, but Kurt had got hold of one for him in return for a generous tip. He’d dreaded the thought of hoisting his bruised body onto the machine,
but he was strong and his powers of recovery considerable, so that now as he followed Frieda out past the Olympiad stadium and towards a lake where she said you could bathe, the dull aching of his torso was quite bearable.

They turned off the main road and onto a lane, on each side of which stood large villas, some merely neglected, some in ruins, all partly screened by plane trees so that they rode along through stripes of light and shade. After following the lane for about half an hour they reached a lake surrounded by trees. They chained their bikes to a wooden railing. Beyond that there was a grassy slope and then a rim of sand. McGovern had no bathing trunks. Nervously he saw that Frieda was pulling her dress over her head to reveal a swimming costume underneath. He’d heard about nude bathing in Germany, before the war at least. ‘I’d like to swim,’ he said, ‘but I’ve not got a bathing suit—’

Frieda laughed at his discomfiture. She seemed a different person out here in the woods by the lake. ‘No-one would mind if you swam naked, or you could wear your underpants. They’ll soon dry in the sun.’

He crept self-consciously down to the water’s edge. The water was cold and he tried to swim with vigour, but that made his back hurt. He reached the centre of the lake and turned, treading water and watching the girl as she approached the edge.

She swam decorously out to meet him, but he was too cold to wait and set off again, his crawl sending up sprays of water. Frieda slithered like a fish through the water, her arms raising barely a splash. McGovern had a sudden memory of bathing in Loch Fyne long ago. Here the sun glittered on the lake’s surface, but the still, dark water soon chilled him. He swam back to the shore, shook himself like a dog and wrapped himself in one of the towels Frieda had brought. With his knees up to his chin he watched her distant head above the lake’s surface.

It was Saturday and there was a fair sprinkling of bathers, some in the water, others lounging on the shore. The curious thing was that so many of them were blond and bronzed, fit young male and female bodies. It was a dreamlike scene, as if he’d suddenly been transported back to the thirties, so that he briefly felt he was in Hitler’s Germany with its cult of Aryan beauty and athletic physique.

They moved to the little café, hardly more than a shed, at the side of the lake. There they sat at an outside table and ate vanilla ices followed by coffee. ‘So Mr Harris has gone with your father.’

‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ As he held the match flame he looked at Frieda’s lowered head and longed to stroke her dark hair.

‘Workers not being properly treated, Colin said, I don’t know much about it and it’s better not to talk about things like that. But Colin was angry, he has always said he is a communist and a socialist, but he said this wasn’t socialism.’ She smiled. ‘Of course it’s not socialism, socialism is just a word.’

She stood up. She had tied her towel sarong-style round her hips, but her dark blue costume revealed the swell of her breasts. ‘I should like some more coffee. I will get it. If you give me the money.’

She returned with the cups of coffee on an old tin tray. ‘Things are always so complicated with Colin. He has such high ideals, but no-one can come up to them, neither people nor politicians. He told me something of this old man he knew, who was killed. He was afraid your police thought he’d been in some way involved. And then there was something about a book. He was supposed to give it to the authorities here. But now he’s lost interest in that and can think only of finding out what is happening in Saalfeld.’

‘So he was working with the East Germans?’

Frieda played with her coffee spoon. ‘He didn’t exactly
tell me,’ she muttered, ‘but I don’t think he had a choice. I think they thought he could be useful. And they – they had something on him. There was some trouble with a young man. I didn’t understand at first, but now I don’t know how I could have been so blind, so naive, because the fact is Colin isn’t really interested in women. It was kind of him to be prepared to marry me, to get me away, but he didn’t
want
me. But there was this thing with a boy and so … yes, he has helped them a little. Through my father he got to know Herr Dr Hoffmann. Officially that was because he was a lawyer and could help with our marriage, but actually the real reason was to spy on Hoffmann.’

Her words did no more than confirm what Harris had already told him, but now he was more interested in her reaction. He watched her and wondered if she truly loved Colin Harris. Her wistful sadness, her anxious eyes … He decided to risk a direct question.

‘What was your father really doing at the end of the war? Immediately after the war, that is?’

Her manner changed immediately. Now he’d worried her. ‘Why do you ask that? What has that to do with what is going on with Colin? Why are you always asking these questions? Why can’t we just be here and enjoy ourselves?’

‘I’m just interested, that’s all. I went to see Colonel Ordway.’

Frieda dropped her cigarette and bent down, picked it up, then changed her mind and ground it out with her foot.

‘Don’t you remember Colonel Ordway?’

‘He was an old fool,’ she muttered.

The change in her manner was startling. ‘Didn’t you like him? Wasn’t he kind to you?’

‘He tried to get involved in things that were none of his business.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Why did you go and see him? He was just a stupid old man who thought he was helping me. But he wasn’t.’

‘In what sort of way was he trying to help you?’ He couldn’t decide whether she was angry, or fearful, or merely resentful. Displeased, certainly, but why he didn’t know.

‘He tried to help me get work in your country. But it’s all in the past. I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter. Please.’ And now her smile was so soft and so pleading that he almost hadn’t the heart to go on.

‘Why didn’t you go? I thought that was what you wanted.’

‘It was … too difficult. You wouldn’t understand. There was a man … Anyway we moved to the Russian sector after my sister died.’

A man she was in love with, then. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it, but he had to pursue it.

‘You were in love with this man?’

She shook her head.

‘And your sister died? How did that happen?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I know it must be painful, but – she
died
? She was ill?’

‘Yes, and there wasn’t enough food.’

‘How dreadful.’

He knew he’d come up against a wall. She just wasn’t going to talk about it. They sat in silence. After a while Frieda put her hand on his. ‘I don’t think Colin is going to help me get away from here and from my father. But perhaps you can help me. You said you would try.’ She turned away and stared into the distance, her elbow on the table and her hand supporting her face.

‘I will try,’ he said, as much to placate her as anything. And yet he meant it. He said: ‘I think there’s more about your father you haven’t told me.’

Frieda shook her head. ‘Why do you say that? He’s just a brutal bully who worked in Buchenwald. That’s all in the past now. I just want to get away.’

‘Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.’

She drew another cigarette from his packet, which was lying on the table. He lit it for her, she blew out the smoke. After a while she said, ‘We shouldn’t quarrel.’

‘I didn’t know we were.’

‘This is as far out as you can go,’ she said and gestured towards the trees. ‘The other side of the lake is enemy territory, for you, East Germany. There’s barbed wire and everything behind the trees. Of course
I
could go there, any time I want, but then I’m not really supposed to be here. But never mind. Let’s just enjoy the sunshine, shall we, since we
are
here, and forget about all our problems for a while.’

She threw another half-smoked cigarette away onto the grass and leaning close to him, she pulled him into a passionate embrace.

twenty-eight

M
ANFRED JARRELL TOOK THE
number 5 bus to St Olave’s hospital. This part of docklands was as much a foreign land to him as Hackney. He’d memorised the route before setting off. It didn’t look good for a detective to be studying a map as he walked along. It made you look vulnerable and you were, because if you were peering at a map you wouldn’t be on your guard.

He scoured the grimy, noisy streets as he walked. The district was a formless mess of workshops, hangars, garage repair shops, newsagents and factories, crisscrossed by the railways. Every kind of enterprise huddled under the arches close to the river. There was even a park so small and blackened that it seemed as artificial as the surrounding shabby buildings.

In spite of his careful preparation he took a wrong turning and it was some time before he reached his destination. The Ukrainian Seafarers Association was housed in a Victorian terrace, but set apart by its gothic façade. Its front door was shut, but opened when Jarrell pushed it. Inside, he looked round the dark hallway, then knocked at a door on the left. A voice shouted something in a foreign language.

The man who faced him across a huge desk looked him over. Jarrell returned the stare with a diffident smile. The man was intimidating, a big man with short hair
en brosse
, a shabby
jacket welling over bulging shoulders and an open-necked shirt revealing a thick neck.

Jarrell explained, in what he hoped was a convincing German accent, that he was looking for a friend. ‘We knew each other in Germany, after the war. I met him in a DP camp.’ He was observing the room as he spoke. A double door to his right was half open and he could see into the back section of the double room. It was furnished with sofas and easy chairs. The walls were covered with notices, a calendar and posters, all in a language he assumed was Ukrainian.

‘I was told this is a place Ukrainians meet, not just sailors. Refugees, expatriates.’

‘You were? Who told you?’

‘I’m anxious to get in touch with my friend. I just want to make sure he’s okay, you know, have a chat about old times, share some memories.’

‘Who is this individual you imagine will want to talk about life in a DP camp?’

‘His name is Mihaili Kozko.’

The Ukrainain stood up. ‘How strange, my friend, that you do not recognise me. And I certainly do not recognise you.’

Jarrell’s wits couldn’t get him out of this one, but he soldiered on desperately. ‘You certainly look different. But we were all starving wretches then, weren’t we.’

The man who said he was Mihaili Kozko smiled. ‘What do you want with Mihaili Kozko? Why are you wanting to talk to me about the past? Raking over the ashes? Settling scores?’

‘I haven’t any scores to settle.’ Jarrell was losing his German accent and tried to retrieve it. ‘I wish to speak to many refugees. I told you, I am writing this book on the life in the camps.’

Kozko shook his head. He was smiling. He moved round from behind the desk and towards Jarrell. Jarrell retreated. ‘You better go, I think. Ukrainians, we don’t like strangers here. This is Ukrainian home for us, this place. Go. Get out.’

Jarrell retreated, crossed the road, walked a little way and leant against a wall. As his adrenalin level sank he felt shaky and slightly sick. What rotten luck to have chanced on the very man – he’d never thought Kozko might actually
be
there. He’d almost mentioned Alex Biermann by name. That could have been a disaster – although Kozko might not know that Biermann had been making enquiries about him. Then it occurred to him that, after all, there was a positive side to the encounter. He now knew what Mihaili Kozko looked like. He could find out more about him if he hung around for a while.

He looked round for a spot from which he could watch the Ukrainian Seafarers Association and found a covered passage from which he could see the building. After an hour, Kozko left. Jarrell followed. The journey led to a pub in Jamaica Road, Bermondsey. Kozko entered the saloon bar and after some hesitation Jarrell risked the public bar, hoping they weren’t in completely separate rooms and that it would be possible to see from one into the other.

In fact, the two sections were separated only by a latticed wooden screen and the circular bar itself. Jarrell cowered against a pillar from which he could peer round into the other bar. He couldn’t see Kozko. But when a figure he recognised stood on the threshold, astonishment jolted through him. It was Miles Kingdom.

twenty-nine

O
N A REALLY HOT, DRY DAY
like this Monday, London glittered in a dusty, metallic haze. Women flowered into cotton frocks in cottage-garden colours and men in light suits brought a holiday sparkle to the sober streets, yet everyone grumbled that it was muggy, humid, unbearable, and expressed their desire for some good British chilly fresh air.

Dinah, too, felt tired and listless in the heat. On the bus, she tried to think of the work she’d be doing at the Courtauld, but her thoughts kept slipping back to yesterday’s lunch with Regine and William. They’d sat in the garden. Alan and William had talked books. William was trying to interest Alan in one of his firm’s publications with a view to a slot on the Third Programme. Dinah had sat on a rug on the grass with Reggie beside her and the children close by.