Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

“Not from me. I just wanted him to look at a picture and see if he recognizes the guy.”

“Yeah. I saw the mug. Familiar. But I couldn’t fix him.” He thumped the side of his head as if trying to dislodge something. “I’m a bit punchy these days. Memory’s all screwed up. Solly’s your man for the memory. He used to know every fighter that ever put on a pair of German gloves, and plenty others besides. It was a shame what happened here. When the Nazis announced that new law of theirs, forbidding Jews from all sporting clubs, Solly had no choice but to sell. And because he had to sell, he had to take what he was offered by that bastard Frankel. Which wasn’t even enough to cover what he owed the bank. These days he doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

Finally I could bear the cold no longer and withdrew my hand from the bag of ice.

“How’s the hand?” He put the cigar back in his mouth and took a look.

“Still swollen,” I said. “With pride, probably. I hit him harder than I should have done. At least that’s what this hand says.”

“Nonsense. You hardly hit him at all. Big fellow like you. If you’d put your shoulder into it, you could have broke his jaw, maybe. But relax, he had it coming. Only no one thought it would be gift-wrapped so neatly. A real sweet punch, that’s what it was you dropped him with, my friend. You should take it up. The fight game, I mean. Fellow like you could make a real go of it. With the right trainer, of course. Me, perhaps. You might even make some money doing it.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. Making money might take away the fun of it. I’m strictly an amateur when it comes to hitting people, and that’s the way I want it to stay. Besides, while the Nazis are around, I’ll always be second best.”

“Got that right.” He grinned. “It doesn’t look broken. Might feel sore for a couple of days, though.” He gave me my hand back.

“Where does Solly live these days?”

The man looked sheepish. “It used to be here. In a couple of rooms above the gym. But when he lost this place, he lost his home as well. The last I heard of the Turk, he was living in a tent in the Grunewald Forest, along with some other Jews who’ve lost out under the Nazis. But that was six, maybe nine months ago, so he might not still be there.” He shrugged. “Then again, where else can he go? It’s not like there’s any Jewish welfare agency in this country, is there? And these days the Salvation Army’s almost as bad as the SA.”

I nodded and handed back the ice bag. “Thanks, mister.”

“Give him my regards if you see him. The name’s Buckow. Like the town, but uglier.”

IFOUND MRS. CHARALAMBIDES STANDING in front of the KaDeWe, staring intently at a new Bosch gas-engine washing machine with a built-in wringer-roller. She wasn’t the kind of woman I could ever imagine using a washing machine. She probably thought it was a phonograph. It looked a lot like a phonograph.

“You know, when reason fails, a fist comes in very handy,” I said.

She met the reflection of my eyes in the window glass for a moment and then stared some more at the washing machine.

“Maybe we should buy it so that fellow in the gym can wash his mouth,” I offered feebly.

Her mouth stayed tight, as if she were trying not to spill what was really on her mind. I turned my back on the window, lit a cigarette, and stared across Wittenbergplatz.

“This used to be a civilized place, where people always behaved with courtesy and politeness. Well, most of the time. But it’s people like him who make me remember that Berlin is just an idea that a Polabian Slav had in a swamp.”

I snatched the cigarette from my mouth and stared up at the blue sky. It was a beautiful day. “Hard to believe on a day like this. Goethe had his own theory about why the sky is blue. He didn’t believe in Newton’s idea that light is a mixture of colors. Goethe thought it was something to do with the interaction of white light and its opposite: darkness.” I puffed hard for a moment. “Plenty of darkness in Germany, eh? Maybe that’s why the sky is so blue. Maybe that’s why they call this Hitler weather. Because it contains so much darkness.”

I laughed at my own idea. But I was babbling.

“You know, you really should see the Grunewald Forest at this time of year. In the autumn, it’s very beautiful. I thought we might take a drive out there now. As it happens, I also think it would be very useful for your newspaper story. Apparently the Turk is living there now. In a tent. Like a lot of other Jews, it seems. Either they’re just hardened naturalists or the Nazis are planning to build another ghetto. Maybe both. Tell you what. If you’re willing to try naturalism for a while, then so am I.”

“Do you have to make a joke about everything, Herr Gunther?”

I threw away the cigarette. “Only the things that really aren’t very funny, Mrs. Charalambides. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much everything these days. You see, I’m worried that if I don’t make jokes, then someone will mistake me for a Nazi. I mean, have you ever heard Hitler tell a joke? No, neither have I. Maybe I’d like him better if he did.”

She continued staring at the washing machine. It seemed she wasn’t ready to smile yet. She said, “You provoked him.” She shook her head. “I don’t like fighting, Herr Gunther. I’m a pacifist.”

“This is Germany, Mrs. Charalambides. Fighting is our favorite means of diplomacy, everyone knows that. But as it happens, I’m a pacifist, too. As a matter of fact, I was trying to turn the other cheek to that fellow, just like it says in the Bible, and, well, you saw what happened. I did it twice before he actually managed to put a hand on me. After that I had no choice. According to the Bible, anyway. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. That’s another thing it says. So I did. I rendered him. Unconscious. Hell, no one likes violence less than I do.”

She tried to keep her mouth steady, but it wasn’t working now.

“Besides,” I added, “you can’t tell me that you didn’t want to hit him yourself.”

She laughed. “Well, all right, I did. He was a bastard, and I’m glad you hit him. All right? But isn’t it dangerous? I mean, you could get into trouble. I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

“I certainly don’t need your help for that, Mrs. Charalambides. I can manage it quite well on my own.”

“I’ll bet you can.”

She smiled properly and took my injured hand. It wasn’t exactly tiny, but it was still frozen.

“You’re cold,” she said.

“You should see the other fellow.”

“I’d rather see the Grunewald.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Mrs. Charalambides.”

We got back into the car and drove west along the Kurfürstendamm.

“Mr. Charalambides…” I said, after a minute or two.

“Is a Greek American and a famous writer. Much more famous than I am. At least in America. Not so much here. He’s a far better writer than I am. At least that’s what he tells me.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Nick? When you’ve said he’s a writer, you’ve said all there is to know about him. Except maybe his politics. He’s quite active in the American left. Right now he’s in Hollywood, trying to write a script and hating every minute of it. It’s not that he hates the movies or even the studios. It’s just that he hates being away from New York. Which is where we met, about six years ago. Since then we’ve had three good years and three bad ones. A bit like Joseph’s prophecy to Pharaoh, except that none of the good and the bad are consecutive. Right now we’re going through one of the bad years. Nick drinks, you see.”