Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

He stepped quickly into the room, moving over towards the two policemen, who looked at him in bovine astonishment. He aimed his pistol at Putkovic’s head. ‘Enough,’ he said, quietly. ‘Both of you drop your weapons. Tell Bunda to pick Jelic up and bring him downstairs.’

Putkovic’s eyes drilled past Reinhardt, to the door he had come out of. ‘Where is Padelin?’

‘Alive,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Get Jelic picked up. Now.’ Bunda clenched his fists, breathing heavily through his nostrils. Reinhardt shifted his aim to him. The man did not even flinch, staring past the muzzle at Reinhardt. ‘Move or I’ll shoot your pet gorilla and make you carry Jelic.’

‘You won’t get away with this,’ grated Putkovic.

‘Get away with what?’ said Reinhardt. He kept his pistol on Bunda, looking back at him unflinchingly. Bunda was the danger man. Reinhardt could not let him anywhere near him. ‘You detained a German officer. Struck him. Disarmed him. Who is in more trouble here?’ Putkovic glared at him, then grunted an order at Bunda. Their pistols clattered to the floor, and then the bull of a policeman knelt, slid his arms under Jelic, and hauled him up and over his shoulder. He stood, shifting the body slightly, and turned back to look at Reinhardt. ‘Downstairs. Him first,’ he said, pointing his pistol at Bunda.

Outside, on the pavement, Reinhardt kept his back to the wall. ‘Tell him to put Jelic in the car. In the back.’ Bunda bent over and unceremoniously dumped Jelic across the rear seat. The man moaned through the ruin of his mouth as he slumped into the kubelwagen . ‘Back, both of you. On your knees. In front of the car.’ The two of them knelt slowly, reluctantly. Reinhardt could feel the anger seething off them like heat as he got into the car, managed to turn the ignition, and then the lights. The two kneeling policemen blinked and squinted into the sudden glare as Reinhardt reversed the kubelwagen . He slowed as he passed Putkovic’s car and fired a shot into the back tyre, and then he flipped the pistol onto the seat next to him. Bunda hauled himself to his feet and began running after him. Reinhardt floored the accelerator, the engine howling metallically. As he came to the end of the road, he saw Bunda lumbering into the street after him in the juddering image of the rearview mirror, then fading away into the night, like some wild creature of the forest.

Reinhardt drove without thinking until he reached King Aleksander Street. He paused there, the engine idling, and it was there his fear caught up with him and came clamouring up against the calmness in his mind that had carried him this far. He took a long, ragged breath and put his head on the steering wheel until his breathing steadied and his hands were firmer. He glanced into the back. Jelic seemed unconscious. At least, he said nothing when Reinhardt called his name. After the frenzy of the past few minutes, shy;Reinhardt was at a sudden loss for what to do. A slow wheezing groan from Jelic sparked him into action, however, and he began making his way through the streets to Bentbasa. Passing only one or two military vehicles, he parked against a wooden garage door and hauled Jelic out of the back of the car, wrapping one of the boy’s arms around his neck and putting his other arm tight around his waist.

‘Jelic. Can you walk? You have to try to walk. To help me. Please, walk a little.’

Jelic slumped heavily against him, but it seemed he tried to carry a little of his weight. Reinhardt took the pair of them down a darkened alley, his feet turning unexpectedly on the cobbles as he staggered from step to step, his knee twitching painfully. He reached a house and paused, looking up and down the street. Seeing no one, he hauled Jelic’s weight to one side, and with his free hand he pushed on the door handle. The door opened soundlessly, and he swallowed a sob of relief in his throat. He had only hoped it would be unlocked.

Moving as quickly as he could, he slipped inside, pushing the door shut with his foot. He staggered into the living room and laid Jelic down on a low divan in front of a set of windows. He straightened, breathing heavily, rubbing his knee. In the kitchen he found bottles of brandy and slivovitz and wet some towels, which he applied to Jelic’s face. It felt hopeless, just a gesture. He poured some brandy and tried to lift Jelic’s head, putting a glass to his lips. Jelic winced and turned his head away, a murmur of protest slipping from his swollen mouth.

Reinhardt sighed and sat back. He fingered his glass, then emptied it hard against the back of his throat, gasping harshly as he wiped his hand across his mouth. He poured another glass as he looked at Jelic, his mind spinning. What had he done? What was he going to do? Was it the reference to Stalingrad? That Jelic had been so close to Friedrich? Did this boy remind him of his son? They looked and acted nothing alike. Was he perhaps a substitute for those two boys at Kragujevac? The two he had not saved? He blinked hard through the sting of tears, the sudden bite of smoke harsh in his nostrils, and downed the brandy. He made to pour another and as the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass he stopped and put glass and bottle down.

Maybe it was just the right thing to do.

He scrawled a message to Jelic on a page of his notebook to stay put until a doctor came, tore it out, and left it on the table where he hoped he would see it. He wrote another note, tore it out and folded it into his hand, wrote two names on it, and left the house. At the end of the alley he stopped, looking across the road to the shop where Simo had said he had ‘bought’ his souvenir. He slipped the note under the door, then drove back to the barracks.

Almost forgetting to take the file out from under the spare tyre, he went upstairs to his room, lodged the chair under his door again, and collapsed onto his bed, letting his pistol clatter onto the bedside table. He threw an arm across his face and began to calm down. Checking his watch, he saw that it was coming up to nearly eleven o’clock. He had an early start with Thallberg tomorrow and he had not done anything to prepare for it, and he could not seem to find the energy to do anything about it now. What had Putkovic said about Becker? He was sure he had mentioned Becker’s name.

He shot up in bed as someone knocked at the door. The room was dark but there was an expectation of light outside the window. His mouth felt thick and gummed, and he knew he had been asleep. The knocking came again. He swayed to his feet and picked up his pistol.

‘Who is there?’ he called, standing to the side of the door.

‘Freilinger.’

Reinhardt pulled the chair away from the door, opened it, and stood back, the pistol held at his waist. Freilinger stepped into the room, his eyes squinting against the gloom. He shut the door, cutting off what little light there was from the hallway. ‘The light?’

Reinhardt reached past him and flipped the switch, squinting and standing back as he did. Freilinger’s eyes paused on the pistol, but he said nothing. ‘What do you want?’ His watch read four o’clock in the morning. He cursed under his breath, never having meant to sleep so long. Never having meant to sleep at all.

‘Thallberg is dead.’

Reinhardt’s breath stopped. ‘What? How? ’

‘Car crash. It seems.’

‘When?’

‘He was found about two hours ago. His car looks to have gone off the road into the Miljacka. There was a corporal in the car with him.’

‘Corporal Beike,’ said Reinhardt, quietly. ‘Who told you?’

‘I heard about it over the radio and sent Weninger down to look. He said Becker was there, as well as Putkovic. He got quite an earful from them. He told me they said you’ve had an interesting evening.’