The Pathfinder (7 page)

After a while, his brother came back with a battered leather case, slightly larger than an attaché case. He put it on the table, snapped open the clasps and lifted the lid with a flourish. Inside, arranged on a piece of worn and rather dirty velvet, lay half a dozen watches – wrist and pocket. ‘I deal most in ones for the wrist,' the youth told him. ‘The Americans want those. They like best Swiss. The Russians like those too, but most of all they like the American watches with a Mickey Mouse on the face. Such as this.' He picked one out and held it up by the strap. ‘See the hands are Mickey Mouse's hands with the big gloves. It's very funny, no?'

Personally, Harrison thought it crude and childish but he said nothing. He didn't care for any of them.

‘You do not like these?'

‘Not particularly, I'm afraid.'

‘Please, I may see your old watch?' Reluctantly, Harrison held out his wrist. ‘Ah, Omega . . . one of the best. I am very surprised that it is working badly. All the RAF were given these, it is so?'

‘Only pilots and navigators.'

‘So, when you came to bomb us you knew the time very well?' The youth laughed as he said it. His sister said sharply, ‘You should not joke about such things, Dirk.'

‘Oh, I do not joke, Lili. It was most important for the bombers to know the exact time. That is why the RAF gave them all very good watches. Isn't that so, sir?'

‘There was no point in issuing dud ones,' he said stiffly.

The boy piped up. ‘And before each raid everybody made their watches to the same time. I am right? You start them all together. How do you say this?'

‘Synchronized them. I'm sure your Luftwaffe did exactly the same.'

‘But not with Omegas, I think.' His brother was delving into a side pocket of the attaché case. He pulled out another watch. ‘With German ones like this. This is my best one. A Hanhart
Fliegerchronograph
. Hanhart are an old watchmakers in Schwennigen. For more than seventy years they make them. Very famous in Germany. A very good name.' He laid the watch reverently on the table and beckoned. ‘Please come to look, sir. This is not a watch for anybody – just for pilots. Made specially for the Luftwaffe. It is the most precise watch in the world. It gives all the time information you need. See the way the bezel can revolve, with the two buttons so well placed, and the leather strap with the strong rivets. This certainly belonged once to a Luftwaffe pilot. Look, the strap is a little worn from being on his wrist . . .'

He had all the slick salesman patter and, in spite of himself, Harrison was intrigued. He went closer and picked up the Hanhart watch and examined it. Stop/start and reset buttons. Steel casing with a ridged bezel, black face, white numbers and hands, two smaller face dials – one for seconds, the other for minutes, stitched and riveted black leather strap. It looked a superb piece of craftsmanship.

The young German hovered at his elbow. ‘You see this red mark on the bezel? You can turn it forward however many minutes you want so that you can easily see when they have passed. And this button here is to press to start the big hand for seconds. Press again and it stops. The bottom button is to reset to zero.'

‘Yes, I know how it works.'

‘And if you turn it over, sir, you will see that it has the Nazi insignia. Very interesting.' Harrison looked at the back of the watch. Engraved in the steel was the Nazi eagle, wings outstretched, clutching a swastika in its claws. ‘You like it, sir?'

He said guardedly, ‘It's rather unusual. Where did you get it?'

‘Oh, from someone who got it from someone . . . It is the first Hanhart I find. It is most special, I think. You would like to buy it?'

Harrison hesitated. ‘Maybe.'

‘You would not be sorry.'

‘How much is it?'

‘Four hundred Player's. The tins of fifty are best.'

He put the watch back on the table. ‘I'll think about it.'

‘Three hundred and fifty.'

Kocharian said, ‘It's a wonderful watch. Must have cost a packet new.'

The Artful Dodger picked it up and displayed it by its strap. ‘If you want, I keep it for you while you think. One week.'

They were all waiting; watching him. ‘All right.' He looked at his own watch, forgetting that it had stopped. ‘Now, I really must be going.'

Kocharian was following him. ‘I'll come along with you, old chap. Show you the way. You don't want to get lost in the Russian sector after dark.'

Harrison shook hands politely with the grandfather, who stared up at him with vacant eyes and mumbled something in German. The boy, Rudi, caught him up near the door. He was dressed in shorts and his bare legs looked pathetically wasted. ‘I hope very much you will come again, sir. If you have pictures of British aeroplanes, please bring them as well – for my collection.'

He shook hands with the girl. She was as slight as an elf, much shorter than himself, and her rough hand was as small as a child's. He noticed that she had a scar on her forehead above her left eye. ‘I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Fräulein Leicht.'

‘Goodbye, Squadron Leader.' She didn't invite him to return.

The elder brother had put away the watches and snapped the case shut. He called after him confidently, ‘We see you again, sir.'

The old gas lamps were lit but set so far apart that they left long stretches of darkness. Harrison switched on his torch. ‘What's the name of this street?'

‘Albrecht Strasse. Thinking of coming back for the watch?'

‘I doubt it.'

‘It was a good deal.'

‘I dare say.'

‘Interesting that it belonged to some Luftwaffe pilot.'

‘If it ever did.'

‘Oh, I think so. Dirk can spin some stories but I'm sure that one was perfectly true. Hanhart did make watches for the Luftwaffe. The eagle and swastika on the back was rather a nice touch, I thought. Tell me, what did you think of the family?'

‘They seemed pleasant enough. How is it that they speak such good English?'

‘School, of course. And the father was a university professor and spent some years at Cambridge. Apparently he used to speak it all the time with them. I never actually met him myself. It's a bit of a sad story. Father, mother and grandmother killed during the war. The grandfather has gone dotty, as you saw. Lili has kept the rest of them together and they've survived somehow. They've had to fend for themselves.'

‘In that terrible place?'

‘It was their home. They've nowhere else to go. People live like that all over Berlin. I say, old chap, how about a nightcap? There's a club I know just round the corner where you can get almost any booze you want – illegal, of course, but who cares? It's rather like Berlin used to be before the war.'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Getting to be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud these days, aren't you, Michael? I suppose that's service life in peacetime. You forget what the real outside world's like.'

He said, goaded, ‘We deal with the outside world all the time, as a matter of fact.'

‘But from a distance now, isn't that so? Like the Americans. You live cocooned in camps and quarters, eat your own kind of food, drink your own kind of drink and play in nice, safe service clubs with your own people. That's no fun.'

‘I'm not sure I share your idea of fun.'

‘You don't know till you try it, old chap. What's the saying? When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well, now you're in Berlin and the club is down these very steps. Goes by the name of
Der Kellar
. You'd never find it if you didn't know it was there – which is the general idea, of course. Take a quick dekko? Just for a moment.'

The Armenian was already halfway down a flight of stone steps and for the second time that evening, Harrison found himself going where he hadn't wanted to go in the very least. The steps led down to the basement level of a building that looked a virtual ruin. His torch showed a door that had been crudely mended with long pieces of wood, nailed criss-cross from top to bottom so that it looked more like a portcullis. In response to a knock, it opened and they went inside.

The club lived up, or down, to its name – a low-ceilinged, brick-walled, stone-floored cellar with supporting archways and lit mainly by candlelight. Tables and chairs had been salvaged from somewhere and a crude stage erected with curtaining strung on wire and drawn across the front. A three-piece band was playing beside the stage: some melancholy German tune. The atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke, and the place was packed with customers. The unsavoury-looking man who had opened the door showed them to a small table at the very back of the room, against the brick wall. ‘He says this is the only one free,' Kocharian said. ‘We're lucky to get it.' It was obvious from the way he had been greeted that he was well known there and he kept waving and smiling and calling out in German. ‘What'll you have, Michael? Name your poison. They've got pretty well everything.'

It was a real dive, he thought with distaste, looking round. The band was third-rate and he couldn't for the life of him see the attraction of the place. The patrons were all civilians except for a noisy group of American servicemen lolling round one table, clearly the worse for drink. The few women present were dressed like whores. He could see no other British uniform apart from his own. ‘I'll have a beer, please.'

‘They have jolly good schnapps. Have one as a chaser.'

He suppressed his irritation. ‘Just beer, thank you.'

Fingers were snapped at a waiter, the order given in German, Turkish cigarettes offered. ‘Sorry, I forgot you prefer your own.' The gold lighter appeared. ‘Beautiful girl, Lili, isn't she?'

He lit his own cigarette. ‘Yes, she's nice-looking.'

‘The Berlin girls have a lot to recommend them, actually, and they've all had a miserable time of it. The Nazis, the round-the-clock Allied bombing, the Red Army and now the Occupying Forces. Growing up and living in these frightful post-war conditions. Half-starved, no pretty clothes, no fun. You can't blame them for exchanging their favours for some extra food and nice things.'

He wondered if Lili Leicht had done just that with Nico Kocharian; the thought was repulsive. ‘How did you come across that family?'

‘I ran into brother Dirk. He was flogging watches in the Alexander Platz. Quite a character, isn't he? Of course, Lili hates him doing that. She's terrified the Russians will catch him and send him off to some labour camp. More than likely, one of these fine days, I'd say. He sails pretty close to the wind. Anyway, I bought this watch off him – a jolly decent bargain, actually – and we got chatting and he took me back to their apartment. I could see what a tough time they were having. I do what I can to help.'

‘What does the girl do?'

‘Lili works as a
trummerfrau
, clearing away rubble. You'll have seen the women out on the streets, no doubt. Terrible job, but it's all the work most of them can find and they do get given some food.'

It explained her hands. ‘Can't they get men to do it?'

‘My dear Michael, there aren't many able-bodied men left in Berlin. They've all been killed or are still POWs or too old and doddery to work, like Grandpa Leicht. Poor Lily should be doing something much better, of course. She's well educated and her English and French are excellent, but there's no chance of it at the moment. No Government, no Civil Service, not much industry or business, hardly any shops, almost nothing.'

‘The young boy, Rudi, seems in pretty poor shape.'

‘He is. There was a frightful polio epidemic in Berlin last year and he caught it. Hundreds of children died but he was one of the lucky ones to survive. Thanks to Lili. She's a devoted sister and she'd do anything for him. The kids here are
all
undernourished, of course. Rickets and retarded growth and riddled with TB. You're something of a hero to him, being an RAF pilot, did you notice? Rather ironic, isn't it?'

The waiter squeezed his way between tables, tray aloft, and set the drinks down: a beer with a tall head of foam and a glass of schnapps. Nico said, ‘I ordered
Bernauer Schwarzbier
for you. It's made on this side of the city. The stuff they brew in west Berlin now is undrinkable.' He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!'

The beer was about the best he'd ever tasted, which was some consolation. ‘This place seems very popular.'

‘They've come to see Helene. It's a very good act. Almost as good as the great Marlene.'

‘Dietrich, you mean?'

‘Who else? She
is
Berlin. They haven't forgiven her for deserting them, of course, but she still belongs.'

The curtains jerked back on their wire and a glaring white spotlight was switched on to illuminate the stage. A roll of drums announced a juggler dressed and made up like a clown, who proceeded to juggle plates and spoons and knives and forks and balance them on his forehead. Harrison watched, bored. After that some character, even more unsavoury than the one who had let them in, came onto the stage and told what were presumably funny jokes for an interminable length of time. When he finally went off and the laughter and clapping had died down, Harrison finished his beer and stubbed out his cigarette. He stood up.

‘If you don't mind, I'll get going now.'

‘Hold on a moment, old chap, Helene's about to come on. You mustn't miss her.'

The spotlight, which had been switched off, went on again. There was a murmur of excitement round the cellar and some eager handclaps. After another prolonged roll of drums, a figure emerged from somewhere in the shadows at the back of the stage and stepped forward into the bright light. Long chorus girl's legs in black net stockings, suspenders, high heels, top hat, blond hair, heavy-lidded sultry eyes, plucked eyebrows, scarlet Cupid's bow lips; complete silence fell. Harrison sat down again slowly. The voice, when she started, was a perfect imitation of the real Dietrich – low and husky and not so much singing, as speaking the words.