Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'Sooner a good strong Yank than a German wimp like you.' Karin's colleague Gerti Kruger was never at a loss for an answer. She had found herself a black sergeant, tall as a tree, from the Transport Division.

'You want your cunt burning out,' Ziesel spat.

One Tuesday morning in August, Sergeant Chang called Karin round behind the shop. The guard at the main gate was on the phone. There was a German there who insisted on speaking to her. 'Five minutes, no more,' Chang told his employee.

Erik de Winter was waiting at the gate. He had lost weight and wore a shabby suit, but his youthful laugh was still the same. 'Erik!' Shedding tears, she ran to him, and they were in each other's arms. 'You're alive.' She could manage no more.

'The Russians let me go.' They had found him at his aunt's place in Nauen, and interned him in a camp for a while. 'The old lady in your apartment told me where to find you.'

'Fraulein Bahr. The Housing Office billeted her on me. It seems two rooms are too much for one person. What about you?'

Erik's apartment in Lietzenburger Strasse had been destroyed. A direct hit at the last minute. I'm staying with friends on Fasanenplatz. Fraulein Bahr says you've been banned from stage and screen work?'

'I'll tell you about it later. The sergeant only gave me five minutes.'

'Listen, my angel. The old UfA head of production is back. The Nazis chased him away, but Erich Pommer is back now as US film officer, and very powerful. We know each other well. He's invited me to dine with him this evening. I'll talk to him. I'm sure he'll get your ban lifted if I speak up for you.'

'Oh. Erik, that would be wonderful.'

'Come and see me after work tomorrow. Then I'll know more.' He wrote his new address down for her.

'See you tomorrow evening.' She embraced him passionately.

The military governor was expected. The army band's gala uniforms had to be cleaned. Sergeant Chang had told his staff to work a late shift. Karin helped to sort the items of clothing, and thought of Erik. He would be having dinner with his friend now. Tomorrow she'd know if he could do anything for her.

She was tired of cleaning clothes for the Americans. The cinema was her world. The studios in Babelsberg were up and running again. UfA was now known as DEFA. And a man from Poland was shooting his first production in a former poison-gas factory in Spandau. He had brought a case with him, full of dollars from heaven knew where, to finance it.

She was on the station platform in time to catch the last U-Bahn train. A couple of GIs and their girls were standing at the far end; the rest of the platform was in darkness. A figure emerged from behind the newspaper kiosk, long closed at this time of night. Why, she wondered in surprise, was he wearing a motorbike cap and protective goggles? Then a chain came around her neck, clinking. She tried to scream, but the chain constricted her throat. Her attacker dragged her behind the kiosk as if she were livestock.

She flailed her arms helplessly. A barely audible rattle came from her throat. Avid fingers pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties. Burning pain tore her vulva. Her tormentor was gasping with excitement. With relief, she felt herself losing consciousness. Her last thought was: I hate death scenes.

INGE DIETRICH SERVED out breakfast: two thin slices of rye bread each. With it the family drank brownish ersatz coffee made from roasted chestnuts, with half a spoonful of powdered milk which refused to dissolve and floated on top of the coffee in little lumps. 'Funny, I thought we had more left,' she said in surprise as she cut the bread.

'That's the way with rations,' said her husband equably. 'Well, at least you boys get school dinners.'

'It's always bean soup,' complained Ralf.

'I had a real bit of bacon with the rind on it in mine the other day,' Ben said, glad that his mother wasn't pursuing the subject of the bread.

'Have you packed your school bags?'

'Sure. Come on.' Ben hauled his brother off his chair. He had decided to go to school today for a change. On Wednesday they had physical education, art and geography, which left gratifyingly little time for Latin and maths. Most important of all, the sixth lesson was religious instruction. He was going to turn the pathos on for Pastor Steffen. He urgently needed a New Testament.

Captain John Ashburner put down the piece of paper and leaned back in the chair at his desk. Outside his window, which had a view of Garystrasse, two adolescents were washing a few of the Military Police jeeps. Sergeant Donovan had come up with a practical method of recruiting youths for carwashing: he simply arrested a few of them for hanging about. 'Gives those damn Hitler Youth kids something sensible to do,' he announced, pleased with himself.

The captain went on reading. It was upsetting. The German inspector had kept his promise, and sent him not only the results of the autopsy but a translation too. Not particularly edifying reading. He thought of home, where these dreadful things didn't happen, where the worst you got was a straightforward murder because someone was jealous or drunk, and even that was a rare occurrence. He had been elected sheriff in Venice, Illinois for the fourth time when he had to report for army duty. But he hoped to be home again soon. Not that he was missing Ethel: she'd be fully occupied running the fan club of the local baseball team. What he liked was making sure folks in his county were law-abiding, going out and about talking to people, looking in at Bill's Bar for a quick coffee.

Donovan's jeep braked outside the door, squealing. The sergeant was a jerky driver, possibly because he was more used to handling bridle and reins back home on his ranch in Arizona. He got out and nodded to his passenger to follow him.

'Morgan, sir,' he announced a few moments later.

'Read that, sergeant.' Ashburner handed Donovan the autopsy report. Donovan read it, his expression grim. Ashburner turned to the young soldier. 'Dennis Morgan, Army Signal Corps, is that right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You know a German Fraulein called Karin Rembach?'

'Yes, sir. Karin works in the dry cleaners' at Uncle Tom's.'

'Your girlfriend?'

'Yes, sir.' The young soldier continued standing to attention.

'Sit down, boy, sit down. Do you know why you're here?'

'No, sir.' Nervously, Morgan took a chair.

'When did you last see Karin?'

'Four days ago. We went to the movies.'

'Will you be seeing each other again soon?'

Dennis Morgan hesitated. 'Tomorrow, sir, I hope.'

The captain noticed the almost imperceptible hesitation. Was it the soldier's uncertainty at facing a superior officer? Or did he know that Karin Rembach was dead? That would be a very suspicious factor. Neither the military newspaper Stars and Stripes nor the military radio station AFN had reported the murder. The US Army media weren't interested in dead German girls, and it was unlikely that Morgan read the German papers.

Sergeant Donovan intervened. 'Your Karin's very pretty, eh?'

'Yes, sergeant, very.'

Donovan adopted a confidential tone. 'Good in bed, is she, Dennis?'

The young soldier blushed. 'I don't know, sergeant. I mean, yes, I guess so.'

'What do you mean, you don't know?' Donovan persisted.

'I meant to say I don't know what you mean by "good in bed", sergeant.'

'Because you're not sleeping with her. We know that from her colleague Gerti. Because she won't let you touch her. In spite of your invitations and gifts. Because that makes you disappointed and furious. Because you're afraid it might get out. A word from her would make you look ridiculous, right?'

'I don't know, sergeant.'

Am I right?' bellowed Donovan.

Dennis Morgan bent his head. 'We're good friends,' he said quietly. 'Captain, what does all this mean? Why am I here?'