Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

When the Military Police arrived, the black contingent was clearly winning, a state of affairs that Sergeant Donovan quickly reversed by bringing his stick down on the heads of the Transport Division men. 'Take those damn niggers in,' he told his men when some semblance of peace had been restored. And take in a couple of the whites too.'

'Particularly that one, sergeant.' said a tall black man. He pointed to a white corporal.

'Oh yes? Who's giving the orders around here?' Donovan raised his stick menacingly. The black man rolled down his shirtsleeves. He had three chevrons more than Donovan, who let his stick drop.

'Master Sergeant Roberts,' the black man introduced himself. We were all using our fists except for the corporal there, who pulled a knife. One of us was hurt. Well, what about it, sergeant?'

Donovan was seething, but he had no choice. 'Your knife, corporal,' he told the white man, and took charge of it. 'You'll come with us. The injured nigger too.'

The master sergeant kept his temper. 'Black man, coloured man, negro if you like, but we don't care to be called niggers. Particularly by your sort.' Donovan's fist clenched around the grip of his Magnum. Sergeant Roberts, unmoved, put his uniform jacket on. It bore the insignia of the highest war decorations of the US Army. Furious, Donovan got behind the wheel and stepped on the gas. He drove the injured man to the Unter den Eichen military hospital. Fortunately the stab wound was not life-threatening.

The personnel carrier with the men under arrest was already waiting outside Military Police headquarters. 'Send those fighting cocks back to their units,' said Captain Ashburner. 'Their commanding officers can decide what to do with them. The corporal stays here. We'll hand him over to the provost marshal.'

The black master sergeant stood to attention and saluted. Your sergeant has requisitioned the knife as evidence, sir. Perhaps you want to put it somewhere safe.'

'Thank you, master sergeant. Put the knife on my desk, Donovan.'

Hesitantly, Donovan produced the knife. 'Let the corporal go, sir,' he asked, when they were alone again. 'I'll make sure he gets a suitable amount of leave docked.'

'The provost marshal will consider whether to lay charges. That will be all, sergeant.'

'Yessir.' Donovan made it clear that he disapproved of his superior officer's decision.

'Get us two coffees, Mike, and sit down.'

'Yes, sir.' Donovan poured two cups of coffee from the Thermos jug.

'Mike, listen, I've been thinking some more about these murdered women. We still can't dismiss the possibility that an American did it. What do you think?'

'I think they were only a couple of German whores. You want one of our brave boys to pay for than'

'Remember what that German inspector said: the war is over, and murder will be punished again, regardless of who committed it, an American or a German.'

'We had a case in 1944, when we were marching through the Rhineland. One of our boys got a bit too rough with a German girl. Rape and murder, the provost marshal called it. The little tart had opened her legs of her own free will. And you couldn't really blame the GI for putting his hands around her neck in the heat of the moment. Anyway, what we did was, we gave him a minor flesh wound and sent him to the back of the lines as wounded. That gave our colonel time to get him transferred to the Pacific. A practical solution, don't you think, sir?'

'Can I ask you a question in return, Mike? What would you do if the two murdered women were members of our Women's Army Corps and the murderer was a German?'

'Shoot the bastard,' replied Donovan in surprise.

The radio-telephone came on. 'Patrol Three, Miller. We picked up a Russki in Block Eighteen. Claims he's looking for a man called K less, something like that. Me and Joe think it's a funny sort of story, captain. What do we do with the guy?'

Absolutely nothing, Miller, if you want to observe the agreement between the four powers.' Ashburner went off in the jeep. Problems with their Soviet allies were the last thing he needed. The patrol car was standing on the Wannsee bridge, barring the way of an open, white BMW two-seater sports car against which the tall, lean figure of a Russian officer was lounging. He had taken off his cap, revealing wiry fair hair, he was smoking a cigarette with a long cardboard tip, and looking with amusement at Corporal Miller and the driver, Joe, who were waiting a little way off, hands hovering close to their pistol holsters.

Ashburner introduced himself formally. 'Captain Ashburner. United States Army Military Police.'

'Major Berkov, staff officer with City Commandant General Bersarin. Extremely pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Ashburner.' The Russian spoke an elegant British English that made Ashburner's American accent seem unsophisticated.

The captain quickly ran over all relevant agreements and orders in his mind. They stipulated that members of the armed forces of the four Allies in Berlin had free access at any time to the other Allies' sectors of occupation. so long as they were wearing uniform. '1 hope my men have treated you correctly, Major Berkov. You're looking for a man called Kless?'

'Not Kless, Kleist. I don't think your men entirely understoond me. He committed suicide somewhere in the vicinity, and I'm looking for his grave.'

A suicide by the name of Kleist. That would be a case for the German police. I'll radio my duty officer and tell him to get in touch with the Germans at once. They can send someone to help you search. Did you know him?'

'Know whom?' Berkov did not understand at first, then it slowly dawned on him. 'Heinrich von Kleist? Oh, no. He and his mistress Henriette Vogel committed suicide here on the banks of the Kleiner Wannsee in November 1811. A German poet from an old aristocratic Prussian family.'

'Well, you certainly caught me out there, major.' murmured Ashburner, with some embarrassment.

'Nonsense, captain. I happen to know about it quite by chance, because I've studied a little German literature,' said Berkov apologetically. Ashburner beckoned to an old man, who showed them the steps leading down to the river bank. 'I'm particularly fond of his plays The Broken Jug and The Prince of Homburg,' said Berkov, taking some photos of the monument.

'Fabulous car.' Ashburner pointed to the BMW when they were back up in the street again.

'I found it on a country estate, hidden under bales of straw. I'm planning to take it home with me — the spoils of war. Privilege of the victor. Would you like to try it, captain?' The major invitingly opened the low-slung car door.

'That's an offer I can't refuse. Corporal Miller, carry on with your patrol. Joe can drive my jeep back to the station.' Ashburner got in. He indicated a small gold plaque with the letters M.G. on the dashboard. 'Initials of the previous owner?'

'Very possibly.' Berkov turned the sports car and stepped on the gas. Ashburner enjoyed the acceleration. They had both taken their caps off to let the warm air waft around their heads. They glanced at one another and found themselves laughing like little boys. It was a beautiful, late-summer's day. The houses in the western suburbs were hardly damaged at all, and children were playing in the front gardens. Only a few boarded-up windows and traces left by shrapnel on the carriageway were reminders of the war.

'Must have been a good life here once,' said Ashburner.

'Give the Nemzis a few years and they'll be doing better than ever,' Berkov called back.

The picture changed the further they drove into the city. Rubble and ruins lined the streets. People were clearing up everywhere. Chalk and brick dust hung in the air, and the people seemed more depressed and tired than beyond the city centre.