The Pathfinder (25 page)

She walked down the bahnhof steps and under the railway arch into Albrecht Strasse. The apartment was as cold as ice and the rain had leaked through the ceiling holes in several places. She stood miserably in her wet clothes. No Grandfather in his armchair. No Rudi at the table. No Dirk who should have been home by now but, naturally, wasn't. Emptiness. Silence. Loneliness. And, suddenly, fear – shaking not only from cold, but from near-panic.

She went over to the wireless and switched it on, desperate for company and comfort. Grandfather had left it tuned to the American broadcasting station. Somebody was speaking, in German, about the
luftbrücke
– about how well it was going, about how many tons of coal and food and supplies had been flown in, about how confident the western Allies and the western Berliners all were that they would get through the winter. On Radio Berlin, of course, the Russians would be telling quite the opposite story.

The speaker finished and she went to change out of her wet clothing. She had missed her work shift and so she would miss the hot soup and bread and the pay in East marks. When Dirk came back perhaps they would light the stove, except that the pile of wood was frighteningly low again. He would bring something with him; he always did. Something he had stolen or bartered with stolen goods. She could no longer find the strength to argue.

On the wireless, music was playing. American music, the kind that Grandfather had come to like so much. A crooner started to sing,
I'd like to get you on a slow boat to China . . .
She sat down in Grandfather's chair with his rug wrapped around her, closed her eyes and listened.

‘They got away all right presumably, Michael.'

‘Yes, I checked.'

Tubby put down his beer mug. ‘That's it, then. You've done your bit. No need to worry any more. They'll sort them out at Finkenwerder. Both in hospital for a while, I should imagine.'

‘Thanks for the help.'

‘Glad to be of use, dear boy.' Tubby accepted a cigarette. ‘You're not planning on seeing your little fräulein any more, I trust.'

‘That rather depends on whether she wants to see me.'

‘Of course she will, dear boy – if she's got any sense and I'm sure she has. You're her knight in shining armour – the one who can rescue her from the dark, dank dungeon. She won't be the only fräulein looking for a way out of Berlin, by any means. If they can latch on to a Yank or a British serviceman, they will, and if he's an officer with exceptionally good prospects, then that's a real piece of luck.'

Harrison said coolly, ‘She's not remotely like that. Exactly the opposite, as it happens.'

‘But you don't really know much about her, do you? She's
eine Berlinerin.
That means she's likely to be damaged goods. Almost a racing certainty, in fact. No blame attached. The women in this godforsaken city have had a simply frightful time and they've had to survive somehow – keep body and soul together. The only thing they've had to sell is themselves.'

‘I'm well aware of the situation.'

‘Sorry. I can see I've spoken out of turn, but I considered it my bounden duty as an old friend.' Tubby leaned towards him earnestly. ‘Think very carefully about it, for heaven's sake, Michael. Knowing what an upright, honourable chap you are, I doubt that you'd offer her anything less than marriage. You'd be a bloody fool to saddle yourself with a German wife with, or without, a past. That other girl in England would be a much safer bet.'

‘Thanks for the advice, Tubby, but, frankly, it's none of your damn business.'

‘Quite so. I stand corrected. No offence taken, I trust?'

‘None whatsoever. Because I know you mean well. The other half?'

‘
Now
you're talking sense. Whisky would be delightful – if they've got it.'

Twelve

Lili stared at the big pile of wood beside the stove. Not the scavenged assortment of broken branches and hacked-about lumps that Dirk usually brought back in his home-made cart, but a neat stack of sawn timber. Logs, cut small and ready for the stove. ‘Where did you get this, Dirk?'

‘Out in the country.'

She swung round to confront him. ‘Where in the country? Where did you find wood like this?'

He said easily, ‘A piece of luck.'

‘What sort of luck?'

‘Does it matter? You should be grateful, Lili. It will keep us warm for ages.'

‘It matters to me – where and how you got it. And how did you bring it all back? Not in the cart – it's not possible. So, tell me.
Tell me
.'

He looked injured. ‘There's no need to get so fussed. I got a lift in a jeep with one of the Americans from Tempelhof. He was driving out and he took me with him. We came across the logs by chance.'

‘Where?'

‘In a barn.'

‘You stole them?'

‘No, I didn't. As a matter of fact, I traded some coffee for them. And a few other things.'

‘What other things?'

‘Vitamin pills, medicines . . . the people were very pleased to have them. They had a sick child.'

‘Where did you get them? Did you steal them, like the coffee?'

‘No.'

‘I don't believe you.'

He shrugged. ‘If you must know, the Yank gave them to me. He was grateful. I've been showing him around. Interpreting for him. I've helped him quite a lot. Americans are generous guys, as you know. We loaded the logs into the jeep and he dropped me back here.'

‘This American . . . is he the man you were telling Nico about? Hank – wasn't that his name? The one who steals airlift goods and does all those black-market deals?'

‘He does a few. So what?'

‘But he does much more than a few. He's like a real criminal and sooner or later he will be caught. And you will be caught too. If not by the Americans, then the Russians.'

‘Oh, Lili, you're making such a fuss. I can look after myself. Haven't I always?'

‘This is different from a little trading on a street corner. Different from pilfering the odd tin of coffee and some cigarettes, don't you see that?'

‘There's nothing wrong in it. People get what they want in exchange for things they don't need any more. Everybody's happy.'

She stared at him. He was chewing gum – the horrible American habit that he'd picked up lately – and he was wearing some kind of American peaked cloth cap on his head; she thought it looked ridiculous. What was the point of aping them? He was a German. A Berliner. He should be proud of that, in spite of everything. They had not all been Nazis, whatever people believed. ‘Things? You mean the few precious possessions they have left swindled out of them by a man like Hank to make his fortune from their misfortune? A man who is using the
luftbrücke
for his own greedy ends. That's despicable. How can you have anything to do with him, Dirk? What would Father have said? And Mother? They'd be horrified. Heartbroken. How can you say there's nothing wrong in it? Have you changed so much?'

He stared back at her, his eyes hard. In the beginning, when he had begun his black-market peddling, there had been an airy defiance, some awareness of wrong-doing. Now there was no such awareness. No conscience. No regret of any kind.

‘Mother and Father are dead,' he said. ‘But you and I are still trying to stay alive. We've all had to change, Lili. You too. They wouldn't have liked what you've done either. You're no better than me.'

Nico called. Lili was home from work and she had just lit the stove when the doorbell sounded.

He was wearing a belted tweed overcoat, a hat of grey astrakhan and yellow pigskin gloves, none of which she had seen before. Where did he find such clothes? How could he afford them?

‘May I come in, Lili?'

‘I'm very tired.'

‘I shan't stay long, I promise.'

He padded after her into the living room on leather-soled shoes and yet no-one had been able to buy them in Germany for years. ‘It's starting to snow, did you realize?'

‘Yes, I know.' She saw his eyes go to the stack of logs. Nothing escaped his notice.

‘I see you have plenty of wood, at least. That's good. However did you find all that lot?'

‘Dirk brought it from the country.'

‘Amazing what he comes up with these days.'

She didn't answer. He was taking things out of the pockets of the fine overcoat. ‘I have brought you a few oddments. Nothing very special.' He laid two tins of corned beef on the table, a bar of American Crystal White soap and a small dark blue packet. ‘Raisins. I thought they might make a change. The RAF have been flying them in by the ton.' He smiled his wet-lipped smile at her. ‘Perhaps they think the Berliners will be able to make Christmas puddings out of them.'

‘Perhaps they do.' She started to slice a turnip for the soup, glad of something to occupy her. ‘It's kind of you, Nico, but I keep asking you not to bring us anything any more.'

‘Don't deny me that small pleasure, Lili.' He took off the fur hat and the pigskin gloves and laid them on the table. ‘Is Dirk not home?'

‘Not yet.'

He looked round the room. ‘And no Grandfather? Or Rudi? I hope they're not both ill in bed?'

‘They've gone away.'

‘Gone away?'

‘To stay with relatives for the winter. With cousins in the country. We thought it was better for them.'

‘I didn't know you had any relatives, Lili. You've never mentioned them before.'

‘They're on my mother's side.'

‘I always thought you were alone in the world. And now, after all, you have country cousins. Where do they live?'

‘A small village to the east of Berlin. We have never seen much of them.'

‘But nonetheless, they agreed to take Grandfather and Rudi?'

‘Yes, they did.'

‘That was very good of them.' He was looking at her with his head on one side; he seemed amused. He knows very well that I'm lying, she thought. Why should I lie? Because I don't trust him, that's why. He talks with everybody, knows everybody. It's safer not to tell him anything.

‘How is Dirk?'

‘Quite well, thank you.'

‘Still working for the Americans?'

‘Yes.'

‘Staying out of trouble?'

‘Yes.' She was not going to discuss Dirk either.

‘I have warned him to be careful, Lili. I know how you worry.'

‘There are always things to worry about.'

‘Poor Lili . . . it hasn't been easy for you, has it?' His voice was soft but she didn't want his sympathy.

‘It hasn't been easy for anybody in Berlin.'

She scooped the turnip pieces into the pot of water and set it on the top of the stove. Nico wandered round the room. ‘And how is Michael these days?'

‘Michael?'

‘Michael Harrison. Who else?'

‘I haven't seen him for some time.'

‘He's been up to his eyes, no doubt. I invited him to the opera recently but he was too busy to come. A great pity. It was a magnificent performance. I would have asked you, Lili, but your grandfather and Rudi were not at all well just then and I knew you would not leave them. Still, the next time you must come. They're doing
The Bartered Bride
soon, I believe. I'm sure you'd enjoy it.'

‘I don't much care for opera.'

‘I'm surprised to hear that. Dirk told me that your father and mother were always playing records of all the great operas. Do you still listen to them?'

‘They were smashed by the Russians. So was the gramophone.'

‘Of course . . . like everything else. So now you're reduced to listening to popular American music on your wireless.'

‘I like it, as a matter of fact.'

‘Not quite in the same class as Mozart or Beethoven or Wagner, though.'

‘My father refused to listen to anything by Wagner. He was as bad as the Nazis.'

‘But he still composed great music.' He smiled at her. ‘Fortunately, since Smetana composed
The Bartered Bride
it would be quite all right for you to enjoy it.'

She added some sliced potatoes to the turnips and stirred them, hoping that he would leave soon, but instead he sat down at the table and lit one of his cigarettes.

‘I don't suppose Michael has told you much about himself, has he?'

‘There's no reason why he should.'

‘I thought you might be curious to know more. The English don't usually talk about themselves. It's not the done thing. His father's a general in the British army. Rows of medals and a title. General Sir Arnold Harrison. He and Lady Harrison used to come to Speech Days at school – did I tell you that I was at school with Michael?'

‘No, you didn't, but he said something about it.'

‘Oh yes. We were both at one of those ancient boarding schools that the British upper classes pack their sons off to as soon as possible. Hideously uncomfortable, freezing cold and sound thrashings for any boy who steps out of line – and I had plenty of those, believe me. All in the best character-building tradition, of course. Michael's father's an exact older version of him – tall and handsome. Michael's a real chip off the old block, as they say. The mother's beautiful in a very upper-crust English way. He's the only son and heir. Actually, there was a daughter as well but she was killed by the Luftwaffe when they bombed London. Her two little boys died with her as well.'

She stopped stirring. ‘I didn't know that.'