Heinz Rein - Berlin Finale

Lassehn is paralysed, he feels as if an iron hand is crushing his chest. So the lady he bumped into a few minutes before at the front door was his wife! She didn’t recognize him! She stood in front of him for a heartbeat, murmured a fleeting apology, she glanced at him and didn’t recognize him, she showed not the tiniest spark of recognition. Lassehn conceals his bewilderment behind a smile of agreement.

‘Yes,’ he says, and tries to give his voice an indifferent tone. ‘Irmgard Lassehn, née Niedermeyer, that’s the lady.’

‘Irmgard Lassehn, née Niedermeyer?’ Mrs Buschkamp repeats in astonishment. ‘Blimmin’ heck, that’s true,’ she adds, and smacks her forehead with the flat of her hand, ‘Irma got married, it was sometime in the middle of 1943, I completely forgot about it. And no wonder…’

‘What is no wonder?’ Lassehn asks.

‘Well, God knows, it’s not really a marriage,’ Mrs Buschkamp says contemptuously, and shakes her head energetically. ‘A soldier goes on leave, smiles at a girl and takes her to bed and they get married so the child has a name.’

‘A child?’ Lassehn asks.

‘No, I was just saying,’ says Mrs Buschkamp, ‘it’s just a manner of speech. It’s a very modern sort of marriage, on the quick, not binding, change permitted, they know nothing about each other, but get married they do, off they go, the Führer needs his soldiers. Oh mighty God, how great is your animal kingdom, there’s no shortage of idiots.’

‘Forgive me…’ Lassehn protests, feeling wounded. He is about to explain to this kind woman the reasons for his marriage, but then he quickly thinks again. He forgot for a few moments that he is a deserter, that he mustn’t come out of the shadows.

‘Have I stepped on your toes?’ Mrs Buschkamp asks and looks carefully at Lassehn. ‘Who are you anyway, young man?’

‘My name is Kempner,’ Lassehn replies, ‘I’m a friend of Mr Lassehn, just an acquaintance, in fact, I wanted to see…’

‘Just a moment,’ Mrs Buschkamp interrupts him, ‘the music’s gone quiet again.’ She listens in to the next room. ‘There’ll be an air-raid announcement in a minute. Such rubbish, you can’t get anything done any more… “Attention, attention, this is an air-raid announcement. Large squadron of enemy aeroplanes approaching over the North Sea towards Schleswig-Holstein. I repeat…”’

‘Well, then we’d better get everything ready,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, and looks at the street, ‘the bunker unit is already on the way.’

Lassehn is hurt, he remembers what Klose said, about public shelters being subject to keen checks. He still has his Soldbuch , but no leave pass, and he isn’t wearing a uniform, any Wehrmacht or Gestapo patrol could mean the end of him. ‘Where can you take shelter when there’s a warning?’ he asks.

‘At the station there’s a public air-raid shelter, but they only let you in with a ticket,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘but there’s another one further over by Pestalozzistrasse. It’s not that far.’

‘Where do you go?’ asks Lassehn.

‘I’m staying here in my house,’ Mrs Buschkamp answers proudly, ‘the Buschkamps don’t leave their house alone with all those old people in it. Fine thing that would be.’

Lassehn listens with an interested expression, but it has nothing to do with him. The situation he has got himself into by denying himself and the fact that his wife walked past him as if he were a stranger irritated him, it may be his only opportunity to find out something from an uninvolved third party about his wife, and about himself. ‘To come back to the question, Mrs Buschkamp,’ he begins again, ‘a moment ago you suggested that Mrs Lassehn had only known her husband for a short time…’

‘Yes, that’s exactly how it was,’ the concierge replies. ‘You must forgive me if I tidy up a bit while we’re talking, but I need to have everything ready when the thing goes off.’

‘Have you known Mrs Lassehn for a long time?’

‘A long time? Depends what you mean, since she’s been living here in the house, about six or seven years,’ Mrs Buschkamp replies. ‘She’s a pretty girl, very decent, but otherwise…’ She shakes her head as she takes a coat out of the cupboard and hangs it on a hook ready to hand.

‘What do you mean?’ Lassehn asks excitedly.

Mrs Buschkamp turns round all of a sudden. ‘Are you interrogating me, young man?’

Lassehn gives a forced laugh. ‘Not in the slightest, my dear Mrs Buschkamp,’ he assures her, ‘I’m just asking, with no particular intent.’

Mrs Buschkamp narrows her eyes. ‘With no particular intent?’, she asks incredulously. ‘Anyone who believes that needs their head examining. I can vouch for what I say, I don’t weigh my words, but I also want to know who’s asking me questions. Old Buschkamp isn’t stupid, my dear boy, you’ve got to get up a bit earlier if you want to pull a fast one on me.’

‘I’ve told you before, my name is Kempner,’ Lassehn replies, ‘I’m a distant acquaintance of Lassehn. And since I was in the area…’

‘Whether you want to tell me your name is Kempner or Schulze or Müller or whatever,’ the old woman says firmly, ‘I couldn’t care less, the name doesn’t mean anything. You are expressing yourself very vaguely, young man. Are you perhaps from some kind of information office?’

The suspicion is so surprising that Lassehn is at first completely startled, but then he laughs with relief. ‘Information office?’, he says with a smile. ‘Not at all, it’s just personal interest…’ Mrs Buschkamp takes a step towards Lassehn and looks at him steadily. ‘First Lassehn is a friend of yours, then he’s a fleeting acquaintance, and now it’s personal interest,’ she says, and shakes her head vigorously, ‘it doesn’t add up. Or do you fancy Irma?’

Lassehn holds up his hands. ‘You’re mistaken, Mrs Buschkamp.’

Mrs Buschkamp winks mischievously. ‘Well, well, well, young man,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Well, it’s none of my business, but you wouldn’t have a chance with her.’

Lassehn has to get a grip on himself to keep from sighing with relief. ‘So is she faithful to her husband?’ he asks.

Mrs Buschkamp shrugs. ‘Well now,’ she replies. ‘You’ve misunderstood me, I meant you wouldn’t have a chance with her.’

‘Why not?’ Lassehn asks sadly.

‘You’d need to look different,’ Mrs Buschkamp says, ‘you’d need to look dashing, like a cavalier from a fashion rag, or even better in an officer’s uniform. Irma is very fussy! She… oh, damn it, the music has gone again.’

The music from the speaker has faded, after a few seconds of frightened silence, in which all that can be heard is the monotonous hum of the electricity, the announcer speaks. ‘Attention, attention, this is an air-raid warning. The bomber squadron announced as approaching Schleswig-Holstein is flying towards north-west Germany. Further bomber squadrons approaching Lower Austria. I repeat…’

Mrs Buschkamp puts a shoulder bag, a gas mask and a steel helmet at the ready. ‘This is it,’ she says seriously. ‘You should get out of here, Mr Kempner, and make sure you’re home when the siren sounds. Where do you live?’

‘By Silesian Station,’ Lassehn replies. ‘Will I make it?’

‘If you’re lucky,’ Mrs Buschkamp says. ‘But didn’t you want to pay a visit to the Niedermeyers? It doesn’t make much difference whose cellar you’re hiding in.’

‘If Mrs Lassehn has gone out…’ Lassehn objects.

‘Look at this one,’ Mrs Buschkamp says and props her hands on her hips. ‘I said you fancied that Irma. Don’t you want to ask about him?’

‘Yes, of course, where… where is Mr Lassehn?’ Lassehn asks, stammering.