Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'Lucky Strikes,' said Brubaker apologetically. 'Chesterfields were sold out.'

Ben saw his chance. 'Well, I don't know. He usually only smokes Chesterfields. Perhaps he'll make an exception for you if you add another five cartons.'

'Five cartons of Philip Morris, my own stock,' agreed Clarence P That made sure of the crepe-soled suede shoes. 'Where do I meet him?'

'He's going to a secret meeting of the Werewolves today.'

Brubaker was delighted. 'Dick Draycott of United Press was saying recently — and rather condescendingly too — that the Werewolves were only the brainchild of small provincial reporters, mainly from Hackensack, New Jersey. This'll show him, the arrogant bastard! So the Hitler Youth is still alive and kicking?'

'You bet,' Ben assured him, squinting at the cartons of cigarettes piled high on the table.

'I suppose you don't happen to know just what they do in more detail?'

'They sing,' said Ben, drawing on personal experience.

'Nazi songs?'

'Sure.'

'Do you know any?'

'Hoch auf dern gelben Wagen,' remembered Ben, although he was not quite sure whether this ditty was tainted by the past like poor Herr Adler. 'High on the yellow car,' he translated to the best of his ability. Brubaker faithfully wrote it down. '. I sit in front with my brother-in-law,' Ben continued, and the man from the Hackensack Herald noted that the words were an expression of typical German family feeling. 'I can sing it if you like,' offered Ben, unfolding the potato sack he had brought with him to hold the cigarettes.

'Some other time. Let's go,' urged Brubaker.

'We must leave the cigarettes in his hideout first or he won't agree to talk to you.' Ben was anxious to make sure he had them. He hid his treasure in the shed behind his grandparents' house, under cartons full of empty preserving jars, and shrugged off any vague feelings of guilt. It wasn't his fault if the Yank was such a fool, was it?

'No one's following us,' he announced as they went on. Brubaker was driving the Ford in the happy expectation of his secret meeting. There was a journalistic sensation in the offing.

At Ben's command, he left the car in an unused driveway, and followed him by tortuous routes leading, as he failed to notice, several times around the same corners. After the third circuit Ben raised a hand to halt him and crept through a gap in the hedge, going ahead. From there they went on over six plots of land and twelve fences. They could easily have reached their destination from the road, but for twenty cartons of cigarettes the man had earned the right to a dramatic scene. Ben ducked down behind a laurel bush. Brubaker got into cover too. He considered giving an owl's hoot by way of camouflage — he had learned this trick years ago in the Hackensack Boy Scouts — but first, owls don't hoot in daylight, and second, Ben had laid a warning finger on his lips before wriggling the last few metres to the back of the Zehlendorf GYA Club on his stomach. Clarence the Boy Scout imitated him. He was tingling unbearably, although that had less to do with suspense than with the ants in the garden.

Ben had worked it all out precisely. Sergeant Allen would be reporting to the Signal Corps colonel, Corporal Kauwe would be helping the girls with their doll's house. The coast was clear. He pushed Brubaker towards the cellar door. You could get a good view of the drama group's rehearsal stage through its barred window. The timing was perfect. The 'robbers' were just singing, at the top of their voices, 'We live a life of liberty'.

'The Werewolves' battle song,' whispered Ben. 'They sing it before any major operation. Better not go so close to the window. They shoot on sight. See that man under the stairs? That's him.' Ben pointed to the caretaker.

'Hitler's right-hand man,' murmured Brubaker, much impressed.

Appel was emptying a couple of mousetraps. 'We beat the drum, we all rejoice, to hear the weeping maiden's voice,' sang the robbers' chorus, while Herr Appel set his traps, this time with popcorn. Heidi Rodel was sitting on the front of the platform swinging her bare legs and watching with a bored expression.

'They have girls in the Werewolves?' said Brubaker, surprised. And very pretty girls too.'

'That's Dynamite Heidi. She carries out special operations.' Ben cheerfully continued to spin his yarn. He was enjoying this more and more.

'Can I speak to him now?'

Ben had thought this out carefully in advance. 'Slink over to that garden summerhouse, keeping under cover, and wait for us there.' He watched with interest as Brubaker wriggled his way from shrub to shrub in his best Boy Scout manner, and covered the open stretch of lawn between the last forsythia and the summerhouse with a racing dive, making use of his training in the Hackensack High School baseball team. His body was much quicker off the mark than his brain.

Ben went into the cellar. Heidi was still dangling her legs. You didn't come the other evening.' She pushed herself slightly forward on the edge of the stage, and her dress rucked up a little further.

'What, skinny-dipping with the entire bunch?' Ben snorted with derision.

'What about with just me?'

'Dunno.' He looked at her brown thighs and wondered what they felt like.

Gert Schlomm clapped his hands. 'We're going back two pages. Moor kills Amalie. Come on, Heidi, and die a bit more slowly this time.'

Ben did not wait for the deadly blow, but strolled back to the caretaker between the improvised rows of seats. 'Hi, Herr Appel. Do you have a moment? There's a Yank out there, he's a newspaper reporter and he wants to write something about German allotment gardeners.'

An American taking an interest in Appel's kohlrabi! The caretaker hid his delight behind a reluctant, 'S'pose I can take a look at him.' He did not stop to wonder just how the man from overseas knew about him and his allotment. 'Does he speak German?'

'Not a word of it, but I can interpret.' Ben steered him into the summerhouse. 'This is Herr Appel.'

Brubaker had his pencil and notepad ready. 'The Fiihrer's right-hand man, is that correct?'

Although Herr Appel spoke no English, he would certainly understand the word 'Fiihrer'. Ben reacted like lightning. 'Is it true that the Fiihrer took a great interest in German allotment gardeners?'

Herr Appel's eyes bulged a little more. 'Could be. Him being a vegetarian and all, he only ate vegetables. But I can't say any more for sure. I was never in the Party, I'd like to say that loud and clear.'

'I was always at his side,' translated Ben.

'Where is he now?' Brubaker was trying to make these earth-shattering questions sound casual.

'What's your own favourite vegetable?' Ben interpreted.

'Cauliflower. Brassica oleracea argentinensis, the Argentinian variety. Grows almost of its own accord, delicious with black butter. Ha, butter, did I say?' Herr Appel gave a brief bark of laughter.

'Dead. Or maybe in Argentina. Or both,' Ben translated the gardener's culinary observations.

'If he's alive, would you by any chance know his address?' Brubaker persisted.

'Baked with a topping of breadcrumbs?'

'No,' said Herr Appel.

'No.'

Outside, a whistle was blown. Sergeant Allen was back, and summoning his baseball team. 'Got to get back to work,' Herr Appel grunted. 'Don't forget to write how difficult it is for us German allotment gardeners to protect our crops from thieves these days. Only last week, for instance…'

'The alarm signal. They've got wind of our meeting. I have to leave at once,' Ben translated, pushing the Fiihrer's right-hand man out of the summerhouse door.

Another verse of the robbers' song drifted over from the building. 'Mercury's the god for us, a trickster, he was ever thus…'

'Inspector Dietrich with his witness, sir,' Gertrud Olsen told her boss. 'To look at the card index.'